'V> 


fMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-S) 


1.0 


I.I 


LA  128    |2.5 

|so   ■^~     H^H 
ui    Hi 

iM  nil  2.0 


1.8 


L25  IIIIIU   111.6 


Photographic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  672-4503 


^^^' 


lo 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes/Notes  techniques  et  bibliographiques 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best 
original  copy  available  for  filming.  Features  of  this 
copy  which  may  be  bibliographically  unique, 
which  may  alter  any  of  the  images  in  the 
reproduction,  or  which  may  significantly  change 
the  usual  method  of  filming,  are  checked  below. 


n 


n 


Coloured  covers/ 
Couverture  de  couleur 

Covers  damaged/ 
Couverture  endommag^e 

Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaurde  et/ou  pelliculde 

Cover  title  missing/ 

Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 


I      I    Coloured  maps/ 


Cartes  gdographiques  en  couleur 

Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 


Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 
Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 


Bound  with  other  material/ 
Relid  avec  d'autres  documents 

Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion 
along  interior  margin/ 

La  re  Mure  serr^e  peut  causer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la 
distortion  le  long  de  la  marge  int6rieure 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restoration  may 
appear  within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these 
have  been  omitted  from  filming/ 
II  se  peut  que  certaines  pages  blanches  ajout^es 
lors  d'une  restauration  apparaissent  dans  le  texte, 
mais,  lorsque  cela  6tait  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pas  6td  film^es. 

Additional  comments:/ 
Commentaires  suppldmentaires; 


L'Institut  a  microfilm^  le  meilleur  exemplaire 
qu'il  lui  a  6t6  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  details 
de  cet  exemplaire  qui  sont  peut-§tre  uniques  du 
point  de  vue  bibliographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier 
une  image  reproduite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dans  la  mdthode  normale  de  filmage 
sont  indiquds  ci-dessous. 


□    Coloured  pages/ 
Pages  de  couleur 

□    Pages  damaged/ 
Pages  endommagdes 

I      I    Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 


Pages  restaurdes  et/ou  pelliculdes 

Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 
Pages  d^colordes,  tachetdes  ou  piqu6es 


□Pages  detached/ 
Pages  d6tach6es 

rT~K  Showthrough/ 
I — I    Transparence 

r~T^  Quality  of  print  varies/ 


Quality  indgale  de  I'impression 

Includes  supplementary  material/ 
Comprend  du  materiel  suppl^mentaire 


D 


Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  Edition  disponible 

Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Les  pages  totalement  ou  partiellement 
obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une  pelure, 
etc.,  ont  6x6  filmdes  d  nouveau  de  faqon  d 
obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  film6  au  taux  de  reduction  indiqud  ci-dessous 

10X                            14X                             18X                            22X 

26X 

SOX 

y 

12X 

16X 

20X 

24X 

28X 

32X 

9 

^tails 
3  du 
lodifier 
r  une 
Image 


The  copy  filmed  here  has  been  reproduced  thanks 
to  the  generosity  of: 

Thomai  Fisher  Rare  Book  Library, 
University  of  Toronto  Library 

The  images  appearing  here  are  the  best  quality 
possible  considering  the  condition  and  legibility 
of  the  original  copy  and  in  keeping  with  the 
filming  contract  specifications. 


L'exemplaire  film^  fut  reproduit  grace  d  la 
g6n6rosit4  de: 

Thomas  Fisher  Rare  Book  Library, 
University  of  Toronto  Library 

Les  images  suivantes  ont  6t6  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin,  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  et 
de  la  nettati  de  l'exemplaire  film6.  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprim^e  sont  film^s  en  commencant 
par  la  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration,  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  salon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  film6s  en  commencant  par  la 
premidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  — »-  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED "),  or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 


Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaltra  sur  la 
dernidre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbole  —^-  signifie  "A  SUIVRE".  le 
symbole  V  signifie  "FIN". 


Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  etre 
film^s  d  des  taux  de  reduction  diff6rents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  etre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  clich6,  il  est  film6  i  partir 
de  Tangle  supdrieur  gauche,  de  gauche  d  droite. 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  nicessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mdthode. 


arrata 
to 


pelure, 
tn  d 


n 

32X 


1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

I.  .1 .1- 


■^X  ''^'^    ■'  •  i 


MAGDALEN'S  TOW 


I 


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l^tL 


f;c«v„magdalen's  vow. 


/ 


BY 


MAY  AGNES  FLEMING, 


AUTHOR  OP 


«Thb  Unseen  Bridegroom,"  "  The  Heiress  of  Glen  GJowbb," 

"The  Baronet's  Bride,"  "Estella's  Husband," 

"Lady  Evelyn,"  "Who Wins?"  etc. 


OwmoBT,  1881,  B7  Davis  &  Elvbimoii. 


< 


'A 


% 


»iS- 1  SWEETHEART  8ERIB8  1  -jfrfr 


Nett  York: 

dEORGE  MUNRO'S  SONS,   PUBLISHEHi 

17  to  37  Vandewater  Street. 


*ii  iTRAlGni  FRONT  «°mij 


\ 


7 


^jjMMStoi^ 


For 


1902. 


THE   MOTHER^S   MISSION.       ^ 

1840.  A  great  Emperor  onc« 

asked  one  of  his  noble 
subjects  what  would  se- 
cure his  country  the  first 
place  among  the  nations 
of  the  earth.  The  noble- 
l#\l  -""^  9  man's  grand  reply  was, 
"Good  mothers,"  Now, 
what  constitutes  a  good 
mother?  The  answer  is 
conclusive :  She  who, 
regarding  the  future 
welfare  of  her  child, 
seeks  every  available 
means  that  may  offer  to  promote  a  sound  physical  development,  to 
the  end  that  her  offspring  may  not  be  deficient  in  any  single  faculty 
with  which  nature  has  endowed  it.  In  infancy  there  is  no  period 
which  is  more  likely  to  affect  the  future  disposition  of  the  child 
than  that  of  teething,  producing  as  it  does  fretfulness,  morosenesa 
•f  mind,  etc.,  which  if  not  checked  will  manifest  itself  in  after  days, 

USE   MRS.   WINSLOW'S    SOOTHING    SYRUP. 

FOR  OVER   SIXTY  YEARS. 

An  Old  and  Well-Tried  Ilemedy. 

MRS.  WINSIiO WS  SOOTHING  SYRUP  has  been  used  for  ov«r 
SIXTY  YEARS  by  Mir.LIONS  of  MOTHERS  for  their  CHILDREN  WHILH 
TEETHING,  WITH  PERFECT  SUCCESS.  IT  SOOTHES  the  CHILD,  SOFT- 
ENS the  GUMS,  ALLAYS  all  PAIN;  CURES  WIND  COLIC,  and  is  the  best 
remedy  for  DIARRHCEA.  Sold  bv  Dnigrprists  in  everv  part  of  the  world.  B« 
sure  and  ask  for  MRS.  "WINSLOWS  SOOTHING  SYRUP,  a«4 
t»ke  no  other  kind. 

TTreiity-Five   Cents   a   Bottle. 


/ 


.».^»  .  tf- 


% 


MAGDALEN^S  VOW, 


fc 


CHAPTER  L  "  ^ 

MAGDALEN. 

The  month  was  October — very  near  its  close;  the  time,  late 
in  the  evening  of  a  v\ret  and  dismal  day;  the  place,  a  cottage 
kitchen,  its  only  occupants  an  old  woman  and  a  baby  not 
twenty-four  hours  old.  The  soft  patter  of  the  ceaseless  rain 
on  the  glass,  the  sobbing  cry  of  the  wind  around  the  gables, 
the  moaning  surge  of  the  pine  woods  near — these  made  their 
own  tumult  without. 

Within,  a  bright  fire  blazed  in  the  shining  cook-stove;  a 
b?g  brass  clock  ticked  loudly  in  a  corner;  a  Maltese  cat  purred 
on  a  mat,  and  the  tea-kettle  sung  its  pleasant  song. 

The  little  old  woman,  who  swayed  in  her  Boston  rocker  be- 
fore the  stove,  was  the  trimmest  little  old  woman  ever  fire- 
light shone  on. 

The  baby  lay  in  her  lap,  a  bundle  of  yellow  flannel;  and  as 
she  rocked  she  cried  miserable,  silent  tears. 

**  To  think  that  this  should  be  her  welcome  home!"  she 
kept  moaning  drearily  to  herself.  **  Only  one  short  year,  and 
all  gone — father,  sister,  brother,  home!  My  poor  dear — my 
poor  dear!" 

The  loud-voiced  clock  struck  six,  with  a  clatt'>r.  The  last 
vibration  was  drowned  in  the  shrill  scream  of  a  locomotive 
rushing  in.  The  shrill  shriek  rent  the  stormy  twilight  like 
the  cry  of  a  demon,  and  woke  the  sleeping  child. 

**  Hush,  baby,  hush!"  the  old  woman  said,  crooning  a  dis- 
mal lullaby.  **  There  she  is — there  is  Magdalen!  Poordearl 
Poor  dear!     She'll  be  here  in  ten  minutes  now." 

But  the  ten  passed — twenty — half  an  hour — before  the 
knock  for  which  she  listened  came  to  the  door. 

**  There  she  is!" 

She  plumped  the  baby  into  the  rocker,  made  for  the  door 
with  a  rush,  and  flung  it  wide.     On  the  threshold,  &11  wet 


t 


6 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


and  dripping  and  worn-looking,  a  young  girl  stood.  The 
rainy  evening  light  was  just  strong  enougli  to  show  a  pale 
young  face,  a  slender^  girlish  figure,  and  a  pair  of  great,  lumi- 
nous dark  eyes.  ^ 

**  My  darling!"  the  old  woman  cried,  catching  her  in  her 
arms — **  my  own  darling  girl!  And  you  are  wet  through  and 
through!  You  must  have  walked  all  the  way  from  the  station 
in  the  rain." 

The  girl  slowly  disengaged  herself,  entered  the  hall,  and 
itood  looking  at  her. 

**  Rachel,     she  said,  '*  am  I  in  time?" 

The  old  woman  broke  suddenly  out  crying— loud,  anguished 
sobs  that  shook  her  from  head  to  foot. 

It  was  the  girl's  most  eloquent  answer,  and  she  leaned 
against  the  wall  with  a  face  of  olank  despair. 

**  Too  late!"  she  said,  slowly — **  too  late!    Laura  is  dead!" 

The  old  woman's  sobs  grew  louder,  and  her  pitiful  attempts 
to  stifle  them  were  vain. 

**  1  oughtn't  to,  I  know,"  she  cried,  hysterically.  **  That 
you  Bhould  come  home  like  this;  and  only  last  year — " 

She  broke  down,  weeping  wildly.  But  the  girl  stood,  tear- 
less and  white,  staring  blankly  at  the  opposite  wall. 

**  Father  and  Laura  dead— and  Willie!  Oh,  my  God!  how 
can  1  bear  it?" 

The  old  woman  hushed  her  sobs  and  looked  up. 

The  despair  of  that  orphaned  cry  smote  her,  with  its  unut- 
terable pathos,  to  the  heart. 

"Magdalen!  Magdalen!"  she  cried.  **  My  darling,  don't 
cry  like  that!  Come  in;  you  are  worn  and  wet;  come  in  to 
the  fire.  My  child,  don't  wear  that  sorrowful  face;  it  breaks 
your  poor  old  nurse's  heart.     Come." 

She  led  the  way;  the  girl  followed.  The  old  Scripture 
name — full  of  its  own  pathos  always — seemed  strangely  ap- 
propriate here.  Mary  Magdalen  herself  might  have  worn 
those  amber-dropping  tresses — might  have  owned  that  white 
young  face  so  indescribably  s^d. 

**  lou  poor  child!"  the  old  nurse  said,  **  you  are  as  white 
as  a  spirit.  You  must  have  a  cup  of  tea  and  some  dry  clothes 
right  away.     Where  is  your  trunk?" 

Even  in  the  midst  of  death  and  despair  these  commonplace 
questions  rise. 

Magdalen  looked  at  her  with  great,  haggard  eyes. 

**  I  left  it  at  the  station.     Rachel,  when  did  Laura  die?" 

"Yesterday,"  old  Rachel  answered,  crying  again;  "an^ 
boar  after  her  baby  was  born," 


maodalen's  vow.  7 

'*  Her  baby?  Oh,  Rachel!"— with  a  wHd  start—**  1  did  not 
know  —1  did  not  know — '* 

The  old  woman  undid  the  bundle  of  flannel.  The  baby  lay 
Boundly  asleep.  ' 

The  girl  covered  her  colorless  face  for  a  moment,  her  tears 
comiug  at  last,  falling  like  rain. 

**  Laura,  Laura!     My  sistei^" 

Her  tears  were  noiseless,  burning,  bitter.  She  looked  up 
presently,  to  bend  over  the  sleeping  child  and  kiss  its  velvet 
oheek. 

**  Laura's  baby!  Poor  little  motherless  thing  I  Oh,  Kachel, 
it  is  very,  very  hard!" 

**  Very  hard,  my  dearest,  and  terrible  to  bear;  but  it  must 
be  borne,  for  all.  that.  My  pet,  go  up  to  your  room  and 
change  those  dripping  clothes.  I  don  t  want  to  lose  you, 
too." 

**  Better  so,"  the  girl  said,  wearily.  **  Better  end  it  all, 
and  lie  down  and  die  with  them.  Others  would  die  of  halt 
this  misery,  but  I  only  suffer  and  live  on. " 

Slowly  and  spiritlessly  she  ascended  the  stairs  to  her  owa 
familiar  room.  She  changed  the  wet  garments,  bathed  her 
aching  head,  brushed  out  the  rippling  yellow  ringlets — all  in 
a  weary,  aimless  sort  of  way — and  then  returned  to  the  apart- 
ment below.  It  was  a  very  simple  toilet  she  had  made,  and 
her  black  dress  was  frayed  and  faded,  and  scant  and  ill  made; 
but,  for  all  that,  she  was  well  worth  looking  at. 

She  was  very  pretty,  in  spite  of  her  pallor— so  pretty  that 
it  was  a  pleasure  only  to  look  at  her. 

**  My  own  darling!"  the  old  nurse  said,  fondly  kissing  her; 
**  you  are  more  beautiful  than  ever,  and  almost  a  woman  at 
sixteen.  It's  a  sad  pity;  but,  oh,  dear,  dear!  how  can  1  help 
it?    To  think  you  can  go  to  school  no  more!" 

**  I  must  only  study  at  home,"  Magdalen  said,  **  and  prac- 
tice my  music  as  well  as  I  can.  I  suppose  no  one  would  be 
willing  to  engage  a  governess  only  sixteen  years  old.  Have 
we  enough  to  live  on  for  a  year,  Rachel?" 

**  More  than  enough,  surely.  Your  poor  papa's  lawyer, 
Mr.  Hammond,  will  tell  you.  It  is  very  hard,  my  poor  dear; 
you  have  to  go  out  into  the  big,  wicked,  cruel  world  to  earn 
your  own  living,  at  all.     You  are  a  great  deal  too  pretty." 

**  Rachel,"  said  Magdalen,  abruptly,  **  where  is  Laura?  I 
want  to  see  her. " 

**  She's  laid  out  in  the  parlor,  poor  darling!  Widow  Mor- 
gari  sat  up  with  me  last  night,  and  she  helped  me  afterward 
to  lay  her  out.    She  makes  a  lovely  corpse — sweet,  pale  lamb! 


8 


Magdalen's  tow. 


— and  peaceful  as  an  angel.     Don't 


Tak«  some  tea 


— ana  peaoeiui  as  an  angei.  j;on  t  go  now.  raK«  some  tea 
first.  You  looked  fagged  out,  and  I  shall  hare  you  sick  on 
my  hands,  too." 

**  You  don't  know  how  strong  I  am,"  said  Magdalen.  **  I 
have  grown  of  late  tired  of  my  life,  of  the  world,  of  myself, 
of  everything;  but  nothing  hurts  me.  I  suffer  and  live  on. 
Others,  more  fortunate,  would  sufifer  and  die." 

She  drank  the  tea,  strove  to  eat,  and  failed. 

**  It's  of  no  use,  Rachel;  I  can't.  I  feel  as  though  it  wort 
choking  me.  Let  me  go  and  see  my  sister;  then  you  shall 
tell  me  all." 

Eachel  rose  and  led  the  way  down  the  hall,  bearing  a  light. 
In  dead  silence  she  opened  the  parlor  door,  and  Magdalen  fol- 
lowed her  in. 

The  cottage  parlor  was  very  like  any  other  cottage  parlor, 
plainly  and  prettily  furnished.  Carpet,  and  furniture,  and 
pictures  were  all  very  simple,  and  bright,  and  nice;  but  one 
ghastly  object  was  there  to  chill  the  quiet  beauty  of  the  pict- 
ure. 

In  the  center  of  the  floor  stood  a  long  table,  draped  in 
ghostly  white.  Awfully  stiff  and  rigid,  under  a  white  sheet, 
could  be  seen  the  outline  of  what  lay  stark  and  dead  thereon. . 

Magdalen  paused  on  the  threshold  and  laid  her  hand  on 
Kachers  arm,  her  eyes  fixed,  large  and  dilated,  on  that  ghast- 
ly sight.  The  dim  lamp-light  showed  her  face,  with  its  state 
of  white  horror. 

**  Leave  me  alone,  Rachel,"  she  said,  in  a  hoarse  whisper. 
"Go!" 

There  was  that  in  her  nursling's  face  the  old  woman  dared 
not  disobey.     She  turned  reluctantly  away  and  left  the  room. 

The  girl  advanced  and  stood  beside  the  bed.  Only  the  soft 
sobbing  of  the  October  rain,  the  shuddering  wail  of  the  night 
wind,  and  the  solemn  surging  of  the  piue-trees  broke  the 
silence  of  the  room.  With  a  face  like  snow,  like  marble,  shoi 
drew  the  sheet  down  and  gazed  upon  the  sister  she  had  loved 
80  well.  It  was  a  face  wonderfully  beautiful  in  its  last  dream- 
less sleep — more  beautiful,  perhaps,  than  it  had  ever  been  in 
life.  The  straight,  delicate  features  were  like  her  own;  so 
was  the  mass'  of  burnished  hair  combed  away  from  the  icy 
brow.  The  hands  were  folded  together  across  the  bosom;  the 
sweet,  beautiful  lips  were  closed  with  an  ineffable  expression 
of  rest.  Too.  solemn  for  words  to  tell  was  the  unutterable 
peace  of  that  death  sleep. 

**  And  it  all  ends  here!"  Magdalen  thought.  "Youth, 
and  hope,  and  innocence!    Sv^efJt^ess,  and  beauty,  and  ten- 


MAG  DA  LBN 'b    VOW.  • 

derest  love  oould  not  snvo  her  one  poor  hour  from  ruin  and 
the  grave.     Oh!  my  sister — my  sister!'*" 

She  dronpod  on  lior  knees  and  laid  her  face  on  the  marble 
breast.  l3o  tear  fill,  no  sob  shook  her  tender  frame.  She 
beemod  to  have  passed  beyond  all  that.  The  steady  drip,  dripl 
of  the  ceaseless  rain,  the  mournful  sighing  of  the  wind  sound- 
ed like  a  dirge  for  the  doud.  So  long  she  knelt  there  that  old 
Rachel,  growiu^  alarmed,  opened  the  door  and  ca.ne  hi. 

**  My  child — my  child!'*  in  an  awe-struck  whisper,  **  come 
away.     This  will  never  do." 

The  girl  got  up  at  once,  pale  as  the  dead  sister  lying  before 
her,  and  almost  as  rigid.  One  last  look  and  she  followed  the 
old  nurse  out  into  the  kitchen.  She  eat  down  before  the  fire, 
that  icy  calm  still  over  all. 

**  And  now,  Rachel,"  she  said,  **  tell  me  the  whole  story." 

**  It*8  a  short  enough  story,"  Rachel  said,  with  a  heavy 
sigh,  **  to  contain  so  much  misery.  Let  me  see.  It  was  last 
September,  twelve  months  ago,  you  went  away  to  New  Haven 
to  school?" 

"Yes." 

**  Well,  one  week  after,  the  trouble  began.  "Willie,  you 
know,  was  not  going  to  New  York  to  continue  his  medical 
studies  until  December,  and  he  spent  a  good  deal  of  his  time 
in  the  woods,  fishing  and  shooting,  and  in  the  village  loitering 
about  the  hotel.  It  was  thei'e  he  met  the  villain  who  wrought 
all  our  misery — a  wretch  for  whom  hanging  would  be  a  great 
deal  too  good!" 

Magdalen's  teeth  clinched,  and  her  eyes  suddenly  blazed  up. 

**  Go  on,"  she  said;  **  tell  me  his  name." 

**  His  name  was  Maurice  Langley,  and  he  was  very  hand- 
some. Tall  and  fair,  you  know,  with  dark,  curling  hair  and 
a  black  mustache.  He  had  come  to  the  country  for  a  month's 
fishing,  and  Willie  and  he  grew  as  intimate  as  brothers. 
Willie  brought  him  home,  and  your  poor  papa  and  Laura  were 
taken  with  him  at  once.  He  had  such  winning  ways,  such  a 
pleasant  laugh,  and  such  a  charming,  off-hand  manner,  that 
he  took  people's  fancy  at  first  sight.  He  could  play  the  pianr 
better  than  Laura,  and  sing  most  beautiful,  and  he  could  talk 
to  your  papa  like  a  book.  He  fascinated  all  of  us  the  very 
first  visit,  and  I  don't  know  who  sung  his  praises  loudest  when 
he  went  away.  It  was  not  Laura;  she  said  nothing;  but  there 
was  a  look  in  her  sweet  face  that  told  far  more  than  words. 

**  After  that  Mr.  Langley  was  every  day,  and  nearly  all  of 
every  day,  at  the  house.  He  and  Laura  were  always  together, 
playmg,  and  singing,  and  drawing,  and  reading.     And  the 


I 


f 


^f 


f 


I 


10 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


more  we  saw  of  him  fche  better  we  liked  him,  and  we  never 
tried  to  check  this  intimacy.  And  that  month  passed  and  the 
next  came,  and  Mr.  Langley  began  to  talk  of  going  home.  I 
don't  know  rightly  where  his  home  was,  but  1  thmk  in  New 
York,  where  he  was  studying  law,  ho  told  us.  The  middle  of 
October  he  did  go,  shaking  hands  with  all  of  us,  the  villain, 
and  saying  he  would  never  forget  the  pleasant  days  he  had 
spent  among  our  New.  Hampshire  hills. 

**  1  was  afraid  Laura  would  droop  and  fret  about  him,  but 
she  didn't.  She  sung  as  blithely  about  the  house  as  ever,  and 
how  was  I  to  know  she  was  only  waiting  a  letter  from  him  to 
follow  him? — that  they  had  it  all  arranged  beforehand?  Be- 
fore the  month  closed  the  letter  came.  Laura  bid  us  good- 
night, the  evening  that  brought  it,  and  the  next  morning, 
when  1  went  to  call  her  to  breakfast,  she  was  gone.'* 

There  was  a  pause.  Eachel's  tears  were  falling  fast,  but 
Magdalen  sat  staring  straight  at  the  fire  with  dry,  glittering 
eyes. 

**  There  was  a  note  for  your  papa,  hurried  and  brief,  tell- 
ing him  she  loved  Mr.  Langley,  and  was  gone  to  be  married. 
It  was  necessary,  for  family  reasons,  Mr.  Langley  told  her, 
that  the  marriage  should  be  strictly  private.  His  family 
wished  him  to  marry  his  cousin,  and  he  dare  not  oppose  them 
openly.  She  begged  her  father  not  to  search  for  her;  she 
would  be  well  and  happy,  and  would  write  again  as  soon  as 
>3he  was  Mr.  Langley's  wife. 

**  She  never  wrote  again.  It  was  a  terrible  suspense.  No- 
body would  believe  the  story  of  the  marriage  in  the  village, 
and  she  was  disgraced  forever.  Willie  was  furious  at  first;  he 
would  seek  out  Langley  and  shoot  him  like  a  dog  if  Laura 
was  not  his  wife.  But  you  know  Willie;  his  rage  flew  over. 
December  came;  he  went  to  New  York,  and  he  had  not  even 
^ried  to  find  them. 

**  The  next  we  heard  he  and  Langley  were  as  thick  as  ever. 
He  met  Langley  in  New  York,  and  he  was  Laura's  husband; 
but  Laura  was  only  the  wretched  shadow  of  herself.  They 
were  poor,  and  lived  in  a  shabby  boarding-house,  and  she  was 
miserably  dressed.  Langley  was  no  law  student— nothing 
but  a  professional  gambler — and  in  a  few  months  he  had 
made  a  professional  gambler  of  our  poor,  weak  boy.  He 
wrote,  and  wrote  perpetually,  for  money,  until  there  was  no 
more  to  write  for;  he  was  deeply  in  debt  to  Langley  and 
others;  he  grew  desperate;  he  forged  Doctor  Went  worth's 
name  for  two  thousand  dollars,  was  detected,  arrested,  tried, 
and  flentenced  for  four  years. " 


Magdalen's  vow. 


11 


W 


Rachel's  voice  sunk  to  a  hoarse  whisper.  Magdalen's  face 
had  dropped  in  her  hand;  she  never  lifted  it  during  the  re- 
mainder of  the  story. 

"  That  blow  finished  what  Laura  had  begun.  Your  father 
dropped  down  in  a  fit  when  he  heard  it,  and  never  left  his  bed 
after;  and  in  September— just  one  year  after  that  matchless 
villain  came  among  us — he  was  laid  beside  your  mamma  in 
the  church-yard. 

**  1  can  not  tell  you  how  desolate  I  felt  here  alone,  Magda^ 
len.  They  all  wanted  me  to  send  for  you  right  away,  but  I 
hadn't  the  heart.  1  seemed  to  know  poor  Laura  would  come 
back,  and  1  waited  for  that. 

**  Early  in  October,  one  stormy  night,  when  the  wind  blew 
a  gale,  and  the  rain  fell  in  torrents,  she  came.  She  walked 
in  all  the  down-pour  from  the  station,  and  1  think  that  helped 
to  give  her  her  death-blow.  But  she  would  have  died  any- 
way; she  wanted  nothing  but  to  get  back  to  the  old  home  and 
die'  Oh!  that  changed  face!  so  haggard,  so  heart-broken! — 
my  poor  nursling!  and  so  wretched  and  miserably  dressed! 
She  gave  one  scream  when  T  told  her  her  father  was  dead,  and 
dropped  down  in  a  dead  faint. 

Ah!  what  a  wretched,  wretched  time  it  was!  I  never  saw 
despair  before,  and  I  pray  God  I  never  may  again.  1  wanted 
to  send  for  you,  but  she  cried  out,  in  a  wild,  frenzied  sort  of 
way:  -       ■  ■■     ■ . 

*'•  *  No!  no!  no!  Not  for  ten  thousand  worlds!  1  am  not 
fit  to  breathe  the  same  air  she  does!  Magdaien  is  my  name, 
not  hers!    Send  for  her  when  I  am  dead!' 

"  Once,  and  once  only,  I  spoke  of  Langley.  She  had  been 
ouiet  for  hours,  sitting  crouching  over  the  fire.  At  the  sound 
of  his  name,  she  started  up,  and  tossed  her  hair  back  from 
her  face  like  a  madwoman. 

**  *  Don't  speak  of  him!'  she  cried  out.    *  He  is  the  blackest 
and  basest  villain  on  the  face  of  the  earth!    My  curse  on  hiut 
wherever  he  goes!' 

**  My  poor  Magdalen,  it  is  terrible  to  have  to  tell  you  of 
such  things.  After  that  1  never  mentioned  Langley's  name, 
nor  your  father's,  nor  Willie's.  I  loft  her  to  herself.  The 
few  days  before  her  last  illness  she  spent  in  writing  a  letter. 
It  took  her  a  long  time,  she  was  so  very  weak;  but  she  fin- 
ished it  at  last,  and  told  me  to  give  it  to  you  when  she  wai 
dead  and  buried. 

**  *  1  have  told  my  sister  all,'  she  said;  *  it  may  keep  her 
from  quito  hating  my  memory  when  I  am  gone.' 

From  that  hour  I  could  seo  death  approaching     The 


i( 


12 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


doctor  and  the  clergyman  knew  as  well  as  1  did  she  would 
never  rise  from  her  bed  again.  I  wrote  to  you,  bat  you  came 
too  late.     Laura's  earthly  troubles  are  over.*' 

With  fast-falling  tears,  T  achers  story  of  sin  and  suffering 
closed.  The  rain  and  wind,  that  had  made  a  dismal  accom- 
paniment to  her  dismal  words,  the  light  fall  of  red  cinders, 
the  ticking  of  the  old  clock,  had  the  silence  to  themselves; 
and  Magdalen  cowered  before  the  fire,  her  face  hidden,  hear- 
ing all,  and  never  moving  or  looking  up. 


CHAPTER   II.  :,— 

THE  DEAD  SISTEK'S   LETTER. 

Thhough  the  gray  gloom  of  another  dull  October  day,  the 
scant  funeral  procession  left  the  cottage,  and  took  its  way  to 
the  village  church-yard.  The  coflBn-plate  told  the  dead  girl's 
mournful  but  too  common  history:       ^  ^      :-- 

Laura  Allward,  Aged  18.  -"^  '^ 

Laura  Allward!  And  her  baby  wailed  in  old  Hachers 
faithful  arms.  That  was  why  only  one  or  two  elderly  ma- 
trons came  near  the  cottage,  and  why  such  a  handful  of  men 
followed  the  hearse,  gloomily,  to  the  grave.       '■  r^ 

It  was  not  customary  in  that  little  New  England  village  for 
women  to  attend  funerals,  but  Magdalen  Allward,  with  a  thick 
veil  over  her  face,  and  a  heavy  shawl  drawn  around  her  slen- 
der form,  followed  her  ^sister  to  the  grave.  Curious  eyes 
peeped  from  closed  blinds  to  scan  that  black-draped,  girlish 
figure,  and  heads  shook  ominously,  and  croaking  voices  hoped 
she  might  come  to  a  good  end.  But  they  doubted  it — these 
good  people;  the  taint  of  her  sister's  shame,  her  brother's  dis- 
grace, would  cling  to  her,  like  a  garment  of  fire,  through  life. 

The  sods  rattled  down  on  the  coffin  lid;  the  men  stood  by 
with  bared  heads.  Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust,  and  then  the 
eexton,  blue  and  cold,  in  the  bleak  October  weather,  filled  up 
the  grave  in  a  huriy,  and  slapped  briskly  on  the  sods.  And 
all  t£e  time  the  veiled  figure  of  the  lonely  girl  stood  apart, 
forlorn  and  shivering  in  the  raw  blasts.  One  by  one  the  men 
straggled  away  and  left  her  there,  as  desolate  and  forsaken  a 
creature  as  the  whole  world  held. 

The  new-made  grave  was  under  a  clump  of  melancholy  fir- 
trees,  worried  by  the  high  wind,  and  writhing  like  things  in 
human  agony.  Side  by  side  lay  two  others,  sacred  to  the 
memory  of  John  Allward  and  his  wife  Helen,  but  forever  and 
evfr  that  new-siade  grave  must  lie  uameloss. 


MAGDALEN^S    VOW. 


la 


Magdalen  All  ward  looked  up  with  a  shiver  at  the  low-lying 
«ky,  gray  and  desolate  as  her  young  life,  and  slowly,  slowly 
tamed  away  at  last.  Heaven  knows  what  her  thoughts  had 
been  while  she  stood  there  alone  among  the  dead— alone 
among  the  living,  and  felt  that  one  man  had  wrought  all  this 
misery,  and  disgrace,  and  death.  Her  veiled  face  kept  her 
secret  well,  as  she  walked  wearily  homeward  through  the 
windy  twilight. 

Rachel  sat  before  the  fire,  holding  the  baby,  and  crooning 
softly  as  she  rocked  it  asleep.  Magdalen  threw  back  her  veil^ 
stooped  and  kissed  it. 

**  Then  you  are  not  going  to  dislike  it,"  the  nurse  said, 
looking  relieved.     **  I  was  afraid  you  would." 

**  Dislike  it!    Dislike  a  little  babe!" 

'*  You  know  what  I  mean,  dear — for  that  villain's  sake.'* 

Magdalen  rose  up  suddenly,  her  face  darkening  vindictively, 

**  You  are  right;  1  ought  to  hate  it — spawn  of  a  viper — as 
I  hate  him!  But,  no;  it  is  Laura's  baby;  I  will  try  and  like 
it  for  Laura's  sake.  1  am  going  to  my  room  now,  Rachel;  1 
am  worn  out.     No;  I  want  nothing  but  rest.     Good-night." 

She  quitted  the  room,  ascended  to  her  own,  with  slow, 
weary  steps,  undressed,  and  then  threw  herself  upon  the  bed. 
Worn  out  she  surely  was,  and  scarcely  had  her  head  touched 
the  pillow  than  she  was  asleep — the  sound,  blessed  sleep  of 
youtn  and  health. 

It  was  almost  noon  next  day  when  she  came  down-stairs. 
Breakfast  awaited  bar,  and  in  dark  silence  and  moody  she  ea# 
it.     As  she  rose  from  the  table,  she  said : 

**  Rachel,  where  is  the  letter  Laura  left  for  me?" 

Rachel  produced  it  at  once — a  thick  letter  in  a  buff  en- 
velope, sealed  and  addressed:  ^^.^.^ 


n- 


••  To  my  sister  Magdalen.    To  be  read  when  1  am  buried." 

Magdalen  stood  silently  gazing  at  the  familiar  handwritine 
for  a  few  moments;  then,  silently  still,  she  turned  and  walked 
out  of  the  kifcc'.en.     Rachel  looked  after  her  uneasily. 

**  She  is  going  to  read  it  in  her  own  room.  Poor  child!  1 
hope  it  may  not  distress  her  much.  Her  troubles  are  too 
heavy  for  her  sixteen  years." 

Rachel  was  mistaken,  she  was  not  going  to  read  it  in  her 
own  room.  She  came  down  presently,  dressed  for  a  walk, 
holding  the  letter  in  her  hand. 

**  Where  are  you  going  with  that  letter,  Magdalen?"  the 
old  woman  asked  in  alarm. 

The  girl  paused  on  the  threshold  to  answer  h»Ti 


iJ 


i.'_-ata^LA'iiiaA:'J:ft^i/^fJi^ 


u 


Magdalen's  vow. 


**  I  am  going  to  read  Laura's  letter  beside  Laura's  grava 
It  will  seem  like  her  voice  speaking  to  me  from  the  dead." 

Magdalen  could  not  have  chosen  a  more  secluded  or  lonely 
spot.  Shut  in  by  firs  and  hemlock,  a  place  where  no  one  ever 
oame,  save  on  sunny  Sunday  aTternoons,  she  was  not  likely  to 
be  disturbed.  On  a  rustic  bench,  under  the  gloomy  firs,  she 
sat  down,  threw  back  her  veil  and  reverently  opened  the  let- 
ter. It  was  long  and  closely  written,  and  there,  by  the 
writer's  grave,  seemed  indeed  a  voice  from  the  dead.  Magda- 
len read:  ..-^ 


•*  My  deakest  Sistek, — When  you  read  this  the  grave 
will  have  closed  over  me,  and — and  when  you  know  the  whole 
truth,  you  may  learn  at  least  to  think  pityingly  of  the  dead 
sister  who  has  blighted  your  young  life,  but  has  been  more 
*  sinned  against  than  sinning.'  It  is  a  little  more  than  a  year 
ago,  and  yet  what  a  century  of  sin  and  misery  it  seems!  My 
little  Magdalen!  my  pretty,  gentle,  golden  -  haired  sister! 
How  little  I  thought  when  1  kissed  you  good-bye  that  sunny 
September  morning,  it  would  be  good-bye  forever  and  ever. 

"  Rachel  will  tell  you  how  1  left  home — she  can  tell  you  no 
more.  Not  how  I  loved  Maurice  Langley,  not  how  I  believed 
in  him,  not  how  I  trusted  him!  He  was  the  veriest  hero  of 
romance,  the  prince  of  my  silly,  girlish  dreams,  and  1  loved 
him  madly,  after  the  fashion  of  foolish,  novel-reading  girls, 
and  thought  the  sunshine  of  heaven  not  half  so  bright  as  his 
smile.  And  he — oh,  Magdalen!  it  was  easy  for  him,  false  to 
the  core  of  his  deceitful  heart,  to  take  me  in  his  arms,  and 
make  me  think  I  was  all  the  world  to  him.  I  listened,  I 
trusted,  and  1  was  wrapped  in  ecstasy,  delirious  with  love  and 
delight,  and  iike  plastic  wax  in  the  hands  of  a  molder;  I  heard 
his  plausible  story,  and  1  believed  it  as  1  believed  the  Script- 
ures. It  must  be  a  secret  marriage,  or  a  total  separation. 
His  parents  would  never  consent  to  an  open  marriage,  and  my 
father  would  never  consent  to  a  clandestine  one.  So  I  must 
fly.  Separation  to  me  was  worse  than  death.  1  consented  to 
anything — everything,  rather  than  that. 

**  He  arranged  it  all  that  night,  with  the  ready  facility,  I 
know  now,  of  one  well  used  to  such  deception.  In  two  days 
he  would  start  for  New  York — make  all  necessary  arrange- 
ments— I  was  to  follow  and  join  him  there.  A  clergyman,  a 
college  friend  of  his,  would  perform  the  ceremony  within  an 
hour  of  my  arrival,  and  then  no  more  partings  from  his  dar- 
ling Laura  in  this  lower  world.    Oh^  ney«r  did  Satan^  in 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


15 


\i 


temptiug  E^e,  paint  the  forbidden  fruifc  in  more  tempting 
colors  than  did  my  tempter  in  alluring  me. 

**  Magdalen,  1  consented.  I  left  my  home,  my  father,  all 
that  was  dear  to  me  in  this  world,  for  my  lover. 

**  I  reached  New  York;  he  was  there  as  1  left  the  cars,  im- 
patiently awaiting  me,  for  he  loved  me  then  with  a  fierce,  im- 
petuous Jove,  too  burning  to  last.  And  he  kept  his  promise 
— within  the  hour  a  marriage  ceremony  took  place.  A  clergy- 
man, white-haired  and  venerable,  married  us  at  the  hotel, 
without  witnesses,  and  immediately  departed.  I  had  no 
doubt  of  its  validity — no  thoughts  of  any  horrible  fraud.  I 
was  his  wife,  or  death  by  torture  would  not  have  kept  me  bj 
his  side  one  moment,  dearly  as  I  loved  him. 

"  We  lived  in  the  hotel  quiet  and  retired,  and  I  was  unut- 
terably happy — unutterably  blessed.  There  was  but  one 
drawback  to  my  perfect  joy — he  would  not  let  me  write 
home.  And  that  refusal  was  the  forerunner — the  first  of  the 
misery  that  was  to  come.  It  came  soon — very  soon — bitter 
and  heavy.  Indifference  began— coldness,  neglect,  cruelty. 
He  left  me  alone  day  after  day,  night  after  night.  When  he 
did  return,  it  was  always  brutally  drunk,  and  in  drunkenness 
the  truth  came  out.  The  man  1  had  married  was  a  professed 
gambler.  •-. 

**  After  that  bitter  blow  the  others  followed  fast.  Coldness 
and  cruelty  turned  to  loathing  and  hate.  I  was  a  nuisance 
and  a  burden  to  him.  He  wished  he  had  never  seen  me;  he 
was  a  fool  for  encumbering  himself  with  a  white-faced,  pitiful, 
whimpering  cry-baby.  He  took  me  from  the  hotel,  and 
placed  me  in  a  shabby  boarding-house,  reeking  with  foul 
smells  and  loathing  sights;  he  swore  at  me  when  he  came 
home  reeling,  beastly  drunk,  and  often — often,  Magdalen, 
maddened  with  liquor  and  losses,  he  struck  me  !  '  It  was  after 
that  Willie  came.  They  met,  and  Maurice  obtained  his  old 
ascendency  over  Willie's  weak  mind.  He  could  be  so  agree- 
able, so  delightful,  so  fascinating  when  he  chose.  He  brought 
Willie  home,  apologizing,  in  his  laughing  way,  for  our  Bo- 
hemian lodgings,  and  knowing  well  I  would  never  betray  him. 
God  knows  1  tried  to  save  Willie.  I  warned  him,  I  did  what 
I  could,  but  it  was  all  in  vain.  In  a  few  months  he  was  in  a 
felon's  cell  for  forgery.  It  was  through  an  anonymous  letter 
the  news  first  reached  me,  written  in  a  man's  hand,  very 
brief,  but  full  of  appalling  facts.  Maurice  Langley  was  the 
most  worthless  of  all  worthless  scoundrels,  false  and  corrupt 
to  the  core  of  his  heart  His  name  was  not  X^ngley;  that 
najpae  was  as  false  as  the  dyed  hair  and  mustache  he  wore  to 


i 

r 


I'  liMHHl    JffiW^ 


"■•■•■■■•■■I9'*'" 


mi^-.^m^-'^^''-^-'^ 


16 


? « 


maodalen's  vow. 


disguise  himself.  I  was  not  his  wife.  That  ceremony  in  the 
hotel  was  the  most  contemptible  of  shams;  he  had  a  bondfid$ 
wife  lining  before  he  ever  saw  mo,  and  livingj  still,  deserted. 
I  had  been  fooled  from  first  to  last.  If  I  doubted  the  charges, 
let  me  show  the  letter  to  Laugley,  and  let  him  disprove  them 
if  he  dare. 

'*  I  did  not  doubt.  Conviction,  strong  as  death,  seized 
upon  me  from  the  first.  1  was  so  stunned  by  repeated  blows 
that  I  sat  in  a  sort  of  numb  despair,  hardly  conscious  that  I 
suffered.  A  horrible  stupor  held  me.  1  sat  without  a  tear  or 
groan,  waiting  for  my  betrayer  to  come.  r_     ;  ^-i 

**He  came  some  time  before  midnight,  drunk,  as  usual, 
reeling  into  the  room,  singing  a  vulgar  song.  1  rose  up  and 
put  the  letter  in  his  hand,  without  saying  a  word.  He  read 
it  through,  and  burst  out  with  an  oath:  *  That  scoundrel. 
Burns,  I  always  knew  he  would  peach!  Well,  my  girl,  it's 
aU  true;  and  now  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?' 

**  I  stood  there  before  him,  and  looked  him  straight  in  the 
face  until  he  quailed.  1  never  spoke  a  word.  1  went  over  to 
the  bed  where  my  shawl  and  bonnet  lay,  and  put  them  on. 

**  *  Where  are  you  going?'  he  said. 

'**  I  am  going  home.' 

**  I  don't  know  what  there  was  in  my  face  that  awed  and 
sobered  him.  I  dare  say  he  thought  me  mad.  He  kept  aloof, 
very  pale,  watching  me. 

'* '  It's  the  middle  of  the  night,  Laura,'  he  said;  *  don't  go. 
Wait  until  morning.' 

**  I  heard  him,  as  we  hear  people  talking  in  a  dream.  I 
never  heeded.  1  opened  the  door,  and  walked  out  into  a 
blind,  black  night,  as  wretched  a  creature  as  ever  trod  the 
pave. 

**  1  wandered  about  until  morning.  I  think  1  was  light- 
headed. There  was  a  mad,  reckless  longing  in  my  half-crazed 
brain  to  go  home — to  fall  at  my  father's  feet,  to  sob  out  mj 
sin  and  die.  How  1  got  to  the  station,  how  1  knew  enough  to 
take  my  ticket  and  start  on  my  journey,  I  can  not  tell.  It  is 
all  confused  and  bewildering.  The  first  distinct  impression  I 
had  was  of  being  face  to  face  with  Rachel,  and  hearing  her 
say  my  father  was  dead. 

*'  1  have  no  more  to  tell — my  story  and  my  life  are  done. 
You  will  think  as  pityingly  and  as  forgivingly  of  me  as  you 
can,  and  if  my  child  lives  you  will  take  its  dead  mother's  place. 
Never  let  its  father  loo{j  on  it  if  you  can — he  is  my  murderer, 
your  father's — Willie's.  I  can  not  forgive  him — I  can  not!' 
t  am  dyiig,  and  1  can  not 


maodalen's  vow. 


17 


I 


"Farewell,  my  sister;  may. your  life  be  as  happy  as  mine 
has  been  miserable.  1  leave  this  record  in  justice  to  myself. 
Don't  hate  poor  Laura's  memory  wiien  she  is  gone." 

There  the  letter  ended.  Magdalen  looked  up  whiter  than 
snow — whiter  than  death.  The  twilight  had  fallen,  the  stars 
swung  silver-white,  the  you'jg  moon  shimmered  on  the  edge 
of  an  opal-tinted  sky,  and  the  evening  wind  sighed  forlornly 
among  the  melancholy  firs.  The  girl  dropped  the  letter,  fell 
on  her  knees  by  her  sister's  grave,  and  clasping  her  hands, 
held  up  her  pale  face  to  the  starry  sky. 

*'  Hear  me,  oh,  God!'*  she  cried,  **  hear  the  vow  of  a  deso- 
late orphan — of  a  blighted  and  ruined  life!  From  this  hour  I 
swear  to  devote  myself  to  the  discovery  of  my  sister's  mur- 
derer— to  the  avenging  of  my  sister's  wrongs.  Thou  who  hast, 
said,  *  An  eye  for  an  eye,  a  tooth  for  a  tooth,  and  a  life  for  a 
life,'  hear  me,  and  help  me  to  keep  my  vow!" 

She  dropped  down,  her  colorless,  rigid  face  lying  on  Laura's 
grave  as  if  waiting  some  response  to  her  wild  appeal.     But  no 
Hsound  resounded — only  the  dreary  wailing  of  the  «old  October 
wind  over  the  lonely  graves. 


:      <  CHAPTER  m. 

•      -^      ■     MR.    GEORGE  BARSTONE. 

The  oloudless  sunshine  of  a  June  morning,  streaming 
through  the  hotel  windows,  made  squares  of  luminous  glory 
on  the  gaudy  Brussels  carpet,  and  shone  and  scintillated  on 
the  china  and  silver  of  a  freshly  laid  breakfast- table.  A 
white-aproned  waiter  had  just  borne  in  the  steaming  coftee 
and  steak  and  rolls,  and  now  stood  anxiously  awaiting  the 
arrival  of  the  gentleman  who  was  to  demolish  these  edibles 
before  they  grew  cold.  The  early  mail  had  just  arrived,  and 
piled  beside  the  hot  plates  were  about  twenty  letters  in  white 
envelopes,  and  in  dainty — more  or  less — female  hands.  The 
**  Herald,"  all  damp,  and  smelling  very  strong  of  printers* 
ink,  lay  beside  them. 

**  Good-mornihg,  William,"  said  Mr.  Barstone;  **  nice  sort 
of  day,  isn't  it?  Hey!  the  mail  got  in,  and  half  a  bushel  of 
notes  for  me!  All  from  ladies,  William — every  one  from 
ladies,  bless  their  precious  little  hearts!  Pour  out  the  coffee, 
like  a  good  fellow,  and  then  go." 

William  obeyed,  whipped  the  silve  covers  ofiC  the  steak  and 
eggs,  and  took  his  departure,  leaving  Mr.  Barstono  to  eat  and 
re^  at  his  leisure. 


< 


18 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


I     / 


Mr.  Barstone  seated  himself  at  the  table,  tumbling  over  the 
pile  of  letters,  shook  his  head  reflectively  as  he  counted 
twenty,  buttered  his  first  roll,  and  unfolded  the  moist  news- 
paper. 

He  was  a  big  man — this  Mr.  George  Barstone — six  feet,  if 
an  inch,  with  broad  shculdds,  fair  hair,  blue  eyes,  and  a 
good-looking,  good-humored  face. 

Very  leisurely  he  eat  and  read,   swallowing  the  **  horrid 

murders,'*  and  robberies,  and  awful  accidents,  with  his  coffee 

and  underdone  steak.     By  and  by  he  turned  to  the  advertise- 

^  ments,  and  glanced  down  the  long  column  of  '*  wants."    At 

one  he  suddenly  paused. 

**  Wanted. — A  governess.     Must  be  under  twenty-five,  of 
'    attractive  appearance,  willing  to  reside  in  the  country,  and 
proficient  in  music,  drawing,  and  French.     Terms  liberal. 
Address  G.  B.,  *  Herald  '  office. " 

Mr.  Barstone  perused  this  advertisement  with  extraordinary 
relish,  considering  how  often  he  had  read  it  before.  Then  ho 
flung  down  the  paper,  and  turned  to  the  letters  with  a  look  of 
commiseration. 

**  Poor  little  things!"  he  said,  tossing  them  over;  **  twenty 
to-day,  and  eighteen  yesterday;  all  under  twenty-five — all  at- 
tractive, and  all  proficient  in  music,  French,  and  drawing. 
Poor  little  souls!  I  wish  I  could  engage  the  whole  of  them, 
and  take  them  to  Connecticut  with  me,  and  settle  them  in  a 
colony  of  pretty  white  cottages,  and  pension  them  off  with 
husbands  and  dowries.  But  I  can't;  I  can  only  give  thirty- 
seven  my  deepest  compassion,  and  bring  the  thirty-eighth 
home  with  me  to  Golden  Willows." 

Mr.  Barstone  plunged  at  once  into  business,  and  began  tear- 
ing open  the  white  missives.  They  were  all  more  or  less 
alike;  the  writers  were  all  twenty  or  thereabouts,  prepossess- 
ing to  look  at,  possessed  of  the  requisite  arts,  and  all  perfect- 
ly willing  to  reside  in  the  country. 

The  gravity  of  Mr.  Barstone's  face,  as  he  read  these  pite- 
ous appeals,  was  a  sight  to  see. 

**Poor  little  soul!  poor  little  thing!"  he  Interjected,  com- 
passionately, after  each,  as  it  fluttered  down  among  the  white 
drifts  on  the  carpet.  **  *  How  happy  could  1  be  with  either 
were  t'other  dear  charmer  away!'  Any  one  of  them  would 
do;  but  how  in  the  world  is  a  fellow  to  choose  among  so  many? 
1  wish  Fanny  was  here  to  help  me." 

The  last  of  the  twenty  seemed  to  impress  Mr.  Barstone. 
There  was  no  particular  reason  why  it  should,  either.    It  was 


/ 


/ 


1 


II 


MAGDALEN *S    VOW. 


19 


daintily  written,  but  so  were  the  rest,  and  it  was  briefer  and 
less  elaborate  than  most. 

The  writer  did  not  even  mention  her  good  looks,  and  she 
was  the  only  one  who  had  omitted  that  important  item.  She 
was  under  iv«renty,  she  said — eighteen  that  very  month — and 
had  but  a  year's  experience  as  a  governess.  A  personal  inter- 
view could  be  had  by  calling  at  No.  —  West  Twenty-third 
Street,  and  the  note  was  signed  **  Magdalen  Wayne." 

Perhaps  it  was  the  pretty,  peculiar  name  that  struck  his 
fancy-»-and  Mr.  Barstono  was  whimsical  in  his  fancies — but  he 
folded  this  note  up  and  put  it  in  his  pocket,  with  the  resolu- 
tion of  calling  at  No.  —  West  Twenty-third  Street.  On  the 
trifle  of  a  name  destinies  hang — on  the  turning  of  a  hair  whole 
lives  balance.  He  pulled  out  his  watch  and  saw  that  it  was 
nearly  eleven. 

**  1*11  jump  into  an  omnibus  and  go  there  at  once,"  thought 
the  young  man.  '*  I'm  very  sorry  for  you  " — apostrophizmg 
the  other  letters  as  he  picked  them  up — **  deucedly  sorry;  but 
what's  a  man  to  do?  If  Magdalen  Wayne  doesn't  suit,  I'll 
try  some  of  you;  but  I've  a  presentiment  that  she  will." 

The  house  in  Twenty-third  Street  was  very  easily  found — a 
stately  brown-stone  front.  Mr.  Barstone  rang  the  bell,  in- 
quired for  Miss  Magdalen  Wayne,  and  was  ushered  at  onoe 
into  a  handsome  parlor.  « 

**  What  name,  sir?"  insinuated  the  damsel  in  calico,  hover- 
ing, expectant,  on  the  threshold,  and  the  gentleman  pulled 
Miss  Wayne's  note  out  of  his  pocket  by  way  of  reply. 

**  Give  her  that,"  he  said,  **  and  tell  her  I'm  the  person 
whose  advertisement  she  answered." 

The  girl  departed,  and  Mr.  Barstone  was  left  to  his  reflec- 
tions. 

**  Silence  and  solitude,"  he  thought,  glancing  around  and 
taking  stock.  **  '  1  dreamt  that  I  dwelt  in  marble  halls,  with 
yassals  and — '  Nice  style  of  thing  this.  Miss  Wayne's  lines 
seem  to  have  fallen  in  pleasant  places.  Inlaid  tables,  pretty 
pictures,  velvet  carpets,  grand  piano — remarkably  nice,  in-| 
deed.     I  hope  she'll  hurry.  ^'  j 

But  she  didn't  hurry.  Ten  minutes  passed— fifteen — half ; 
an  hour.  Mr.  Barstone  fidgeted  in  his  cushioned  chair  as  if  iti 
had  been  stufifed  with  squirming  eels. 

**  I  might  have  known  how  it  would  be,"  he  mused,  de- 
spondingly;  **  she  is  doing  up  her  hair.  Fanny  always  does 
up  her  hair  when  gentlemen  call.  If  one  could  only  smoke,, 
or  if  1  had  brought  something  entertaining  to  read.''' 


f> 


20 


MAGDALEN'S   VOW. 


"-7- 


'\ 


But  all  things  come  to  an  end.  J  ust  thon  the  door  opened, 
and,  with  a  mighty  rustling?  of  silk,  a  lady  swept  stormily  in. 

**  Trn'^aid  I've  kept  you  waiting  an  'orrid  length  of 
time,"  burst  out  the  lady,  volubly;  **  but  I  was  so  busy  with 
the  children,  and  nobody  knows  what  a  tormcnit  children  are 
except  those  that  have  t:»  deal  with  them.  You  really  ratiBt 
excuse  me,  for  1  couldn't  have  helped  it  anyway.'* 

Mr.  Barstone  gazed  aghast.  The  lady  was  short  and  fat- 
dreadfully  fat — with  a  high-colored,  chubby  face,  and  certain- 
ly never  destined  to  see  thirty-five  again. 

**  Oh,  my  heavens!"  thought  Mr.  Barstone,  in  consterna- 
tion, **  she  11  never  do!  To  think  of  a  woman  of  her  inches 
and  time  of  life  answering  my  advertisement  for  an  attractive- 
looking  governess." 

He  rose  as  he  spdlce,  his  dismay  vividly  depicted  on  his  face, 
and  stared  at  the  lady.  '  *  You  are  Miss  Wayne,  are  you 
not?" 

**  Oh,  dear,  no!"  shrilly  cried  the 'fat  lady.  **  I'm  Mrs. 
'Oward.  Miss  Wayne  is  my  governess,  and  a  treasure  of  a 
governess  she  is;  and  I  wouldn't  think  of  parting  with  her  on 
any  account  if  she'd  stay;  for  she's  worth  her  weight  in  gold, 
and  Mr.  'Oward  thinks  everything  of  her,  and  so  do  the  chil- 
dren; but  it's  natural,  you  know,  she  shouldn't  care  to  leave 
her  native  country  and  go  to  Hingland,  particularly  'aving 
relatives  'ere  who  are  entirely  dependent  upon  her,  and  very 
'ard  that  must  be  for  her,  poor  dear!  'Ow  many  children 
'ave  you  got?" 

Mr.  Barstone,  with  his  breath  quite  taken  away,  and  sit- 
ting staring  helplessly,  was  some  time  before  he  could  realize 
this  question  was  addressed  to  him. 

**  There  are  no  children!"  exclaimed  the  young  man,  des- 
perately; **  it's  a  young  lady — a  ward  of  my  aunt — a  young 
lady  of  sixteen.  I*ray,  ma'am,"  cutting  in  briskly,  as  he  saw 
Mrs.  Howard  about  to  burst  out  afresh,  **  where  is  Miss 
Wayne,  and  when  can  1  see  her?  My  time  is  precious — very 
precious — and  I  want  to  close  the  business  at  once." 

**  And  so  you  can,"  responded  Mrs.  Howard,  "  for  she'll  be 
lere  directly.  She's  just  run  across  to  Sixth  Avenue,  to  Miss 
Simpkins'  store,  to  match  my  pea-green — oh!  here  she  is 
now!" 

As  she  spoke,  the  parlor. door  opened  and  a  young  girl  en- 
tered, recoiling  again  immediately  at  sight  of  a  stranger. 

**  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said,  hurriedly;  **  I  thought 
ydu  were  alone." 

**  OhI  com«  right;  in,"  cried  Mrs.  Howard.     **  Jt  is  to  set 


:T^iB^ 


Magdalen's  vow. 


tl 


yon  this  gentleman  came,  and  he's  been  waiting  goodness 
KQOWB  how  long.  lt*s  about  the  advertisement,  my  dear — 
G.  B.,  you  know,  my  love — and  I'm  sure  the  situation  will 
suit  you,  seeing  that  there  are  no  children  and  only  one  young 
lady,  which  will  be  quite  like  a  sister  to  you,  Tm  sure.  My 
dear  sir,  my  governess.  Miss  Magdalen  Wayne.'* 

The  young  person  named  bowed  respectfully.  Mr.  Bar- 
stone  rose  up  and  bowed  respectfully  also.  He  had  seen, 
while  good  Mrs.  Howard  chattered,  that  she  was  a  very  pretty 
young  person,  with  a  pale  face,  deep  blue  eyes,  and  golden 
hair;  and  Mr.  Barstone  was  always  impressed  by  pretty 
people.  She  was  stately,  too,  and  tall,  with  a  certain  queen- 
liness  about  her  that,  perhaps^  was  a  trifle  out  of  plaoe  in  a 
governess.      - 

**  My  name  is  Barstone,"  said  that  gentleman,  quite  sub- 
dued by  so  much  heauty;  **  and  I  am  certain.  Miss  Wayne, 
from  all  Mrs.  Howard  says,  I  will  be  fortunate  indeed  if  I 
can  secure  your  services." 

**  May  I  inquire,  Mr.  Barstone,  where  it  is?" 

**  Milford,  Connecticut,"  responded  Mr.  Barstone.  **  Mil- 
ford  is  our  town.  The  place  to  which  you  are  going — a  coun- 
try villa — is  called  Golden  Willows."       :  -^^ 

**  And  as  to  terms,  now,"  struck  in  Mrs.  Howard. 
**  Magdalen  has  no  head  for  business  whatever,  so  you'll  ex- 
cuse my  asking,  I  hope.  They're  liberal,  I  trust,  because, 
poor  dear!  she  has  an  old  nurse  and  a  little  niece,  down  jn 
New  Hampshire,  to  support.  You  mentioned  in  the  adver- 
tisement, you  know,  Mr.  Barstone,  *  terms  liberal. '  " 

**  Terms?  Oh,  yes!  my  aunt  requepted  me  to  say  five  hun- 
dred dollars  per  annum." 


ff 


:-V.- 


**  And  extremely  liberal,  1  am  sure,  that  is,"  cried  Mrs. 
Howard.  *'  Ho  you  hear,  Magdalen,  my  dear?  Only  one 
pupil  and  five  hundred  dollars  per  annum.  I  am  certain^ 
Mr.  Barstone,  Magdalen  is  delighted  to  close  with  your  ofier 
at  once. " 

Mr.  Barstone  bowed  with  a  beaming  face. 

**  1  will  call  for  you  on  Friday  morning,  at  half  past  seven. 
Good-morning,  Mrs.  Howard.  Good-morning,  Miss  Wayne. 
I  congratulate  myself  on  my  success." 

Mr.  Barstone  soon  reached  his  hotel  and  ran  up  to  pen  a 
line  to  his  aunt  before  descending  to  the  three-o'clock  dinner. 

"New  York. 

"  My  deab  Aunt,— It 'sail  right.     I've  got  Fan  a  govern- 
ragolar  oat-and-outerl    Pardon  the  force  of  that  ox- 


22 


Magdalen's  vow. 


] 


pression,  but  ifc  jusfc  oonveys  my  meaning.  She  plays  and 
sings  like  Sfc.  Cecilia — never  heard  St.  Cecilia,  but  heard  of 
her.  Her  name  is  Miss  Magdalen  Wayne,  eighteen  years  old, 
and  pretty  as  a  picture.  Tell  Fanny  we  will  be  down  Friday 
evening,  and  let  her  be  on  hor  best  behavior.  Is  Phil  wito 
you  yet?  Best  regards  if  he  is,  and  until  Friday,  my  dear 
aunt,  adieu. 

**  Aflecbionately, 
,    .'  **  George." 

Addressing  this  to  **  Miss  Lydia  Barstone,  Golden  Willows, 
Milford,  Connecticut,"  Mr.  Barstone,  with  a  heavy  weighfc 
off  his  manly  mind,  gave  it  to  a  waiter  to  post,  and  went 
down-stairs  to  dinner. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  MARK   ON  MAURICE   LANGLEY'S  ARM. 

Toiling  slowly,  in  the  warm  afternoon  sunshine,  up  the 
village  street,  shut  in  from  the  world  by  those  green  New 
Hampshire  hills,  went  George  Barstone's  governess.  There 
were  few  people  abroad ;  for  the  train  had  dashed  in  just  at 
tea-time;  but  those  few  stopped  to  greet  heartily  the  pretty 
girl  in  black. 

**  Dear  me,  now,  if  it's  not  Magdalen  All  ward  I  Have  you 
come  to  stay,  or  is  it  only  a  visit?" 

'*  Only  a  visit,"  Magdalen  replied  to  these  good  people.  **  I 
get  lonely  sometimes,  and  homesici;,  in  that  great,  dusty  city 
yonder,  and  run  down  among  our  breezy  hills  to  freshen  up." 

She  walked  on,  a  rested  look  coming  over  her  tired,  young 
face  after  each  of  these  greetings. 

**  The  world  is  not  such  an  unfeeling  world,  after  all,"  she 
thought.  **  There  are  kindly  hearts  in  it — stray  roses  among 
the  thorns.  It  is  wortlr~enduring  the  pain  of  going  away  for 
the  pleasure  of  coming  home." 

Home!  She  paused  before  it  ai  last — a  little  brown  cot- 
tage, with  June  creepers  running  over  it.  The  front  door 
stood  wide  to  admit  the  pleasant  evening  coolness,  and  she 
could  see  through  into  the  little,  yellow-painted  kitchen. 
There  sat  Rachel  over  her  knitting — there  lay  pussy,  coiled 
up  on  her  mat — and  there  toddled  about  a  little,  flaxen-haired, 
pink-cheek  fairy,  very  shaky  on  her  fat  legs.  The  golden 
sonset  lighted  up  the  picture  like  amber  rain. 

**  Dear  old  home!"  Magdalen  murmured.  "  Such  a  haven 
oi  Feet  and  peace,  after  the  turmoil  and  strife  of  tjne  big. 


MAODALEK  8    VOW. 


23 


\  weary  world  I    Thank  God!  I  can  keep  it  for  them.     Thank 

God  for  my  youth  and  strength  that  enables  me  to  fight  the 
battle  of  life!  Such  a  happy,  hapny  home  as  it  once  was,  be- 
fore that  villain  came!  Father,  Willie,  Laura,  all  gone — all 
their  unavenged  wrongs  lying  at  his  door!  Heaven  grant  me 
patience  to  persevere  until  I  find  him,  and  then — then  let  him 
beware!" 

Her  face  darkened  vindictively,  and  her  little  hand  clinched. 
Oh!  to  have  him  at  her  mercy  now — to  stand  face  to  face 
with  Laura's  murderer! 
.  She  pushed  open  the  low,  white  gate  and  walked  in.  Old 
t  liachel  s  blunt  hearing  failed  to  catch  the  light  step,  but  the 
little  toddler  saw  her,  and  ran  forward  with  a  scream  of  de- 
light. / 

**  My  pet — my  pet!''  Magdalen  cried,  catching  her  up  and 
covering  the  bright  baby  face  with  kisses,  "  how  glad  I  am  to 
see  you  again!" 

Bachel  started  up  and  stood  with  a  face  of  doubt  and  de- 
light.    The  girl  laughed  and  kissed  he:-,  too. 

**  Dear  old  nursey!  Yes;  it's  I;  arid  very  tired,  dusty,  and 
hungry  1  am.  Is  tea  almost  ready,  Kachel,  and  have  you  got 
anything  particularly  nice?" 

**  My  child!  my  darling!  You  don't  know  what  a  happy 
surprise  this  is!"  old  liachel  exclaimed.  **  I  can  not  tell  you 
how  glad  1  am  to  see  you!  And  Laura,  too.  Look  at  that 
child  s  eyes!" 

"  That's  because  she's  waiting  for  candy,"  said  Magdalen. 
**  Well,  you  shall  have  some,  Laura.  Sere's  candy,  pea- 
nuts, picture  books,  dolls,  ad  infinitum.  Cry  *  havoc,'  and 
disembowel  the  bag  yourself." 

She  gave  her  reticule  in(;o  the  child's  hands,  and  little 
Laura,  with  a  childish  scream  of  ecstasy,  sat  down  on  the 
floor  and  proceeded  to  intrench  herself  in  a  breastwork  of  toys 
and  sweetmeats. 

Magdalen  shook  out  her  dusty  robes,  smoothed  the  shining 
tresses  Mr.  George  Barstone  had  adnfired  so  much,  and  sat 
down  and  looked  at  her  old  nurse,  with  a  face  so  brightly 
beautiful,  that  it  was  a  delight  only  to  see  her.  She  was  a 
fresh  and  sanguine  girl  of  eighteen,  and  the  happy  radiance 
would  break  out,  in  spite  of  present  drudgery  and  past 
troubles. 

**  It  is  so  nice  to  be  hero!"  she  said,  fetching  a  long 
breath.  **  You  don't  knOw  how  homesick  I  get  sometimes, 
Bachel.  New  York  seems  like  a  great  stone  prison,  and  1, 
and  the  rest  of  the  men  and  women,  all  in  the  treadmill.     X 


"TfTTT' 


24 


Magdalen's  vow. 


feel  as  tbongh  I  should  die,  if  1  did  not  make  my  eBcape  oc- 
casioDally  and  see  the  blue  sky  and  the  sveelliog  fields^  and 
breathe  the  fresh  mountain  wind." 

**  You  poor  child!    And  how  long  are  you  going  to  stay?" 
'    **  Only  until  to-morrow  afternoon.     1  have  left  Mrs.  How- 
ard's, and  put  my  head  in  a  new  yoke  on  Friday  morning." 
,  **  My  dear — left  your  place?" 

**  Yes— for  a  better,  I  hope.  The  salary  is  higher,  and  the 
irork,  I  take  it,  less;  but  I  never  expect  to  find  a  more  in- 
dulgent employer  than  gossipy,  good-natured  Mrs.  Howard. 
8he  is  going  home  to  England,  you  see,  and  1  can't  go  with 
ber  on  account  of  the  old  lady  and  the  bairnie  here;  so  I  an- 
swered an  advertisement  in  the  *  Herald,'  and  secured  this 
new  place."  - 

,•  **  In  New  York?" 

"No;  the  country — Milford,  Connecticut.^  The  name  of 
the  family  is  Barstone,  and,  from  the  sample*!  have  seen,  1 
think  I  shall  like  them.  I  don't  go  until  Friday,  so  I  took 
time  by  the  forelock,  and  came  home  to  tell  you  the  news. 
And  now  for  supper.     I  told  you  I  was  famished." 

Nurse  Rachel  bustled  about  in  a  state  of  ecstasy.  It  was 
delightful  to  see  her  nursling  at  all — it  was  more  delightful 
to  see  her  in  such  good  health  and  spirits. 

**  I  wish  1  had  you  always,"  Rachel  said.  "You  bring 
sunshine  wherever  you  go,  my  pretty  darling.  It  is  a  great 
deal  too  hard  on  a  delicate  young  creature  like  you,  to  have 
to  work  like  a  galley-slave  or  a  kitchen-maid,  for  a  good-for- 
nothing  old  woman  like  me,  and  poor  little  Laura.  But  1 
hope  it  won't  last  forever.  That  bright  face  of  yours,  my 
pet,  will  get  you  a  handsome  young  husband  one  of  these 
days,  with  plenty  of  money,  and  all  your  heart  can  wish. " 

**  Plenty  of  money  and  nothing  to  do!"  sung  Magdalen. 
**  That  would  be  bliss,  Rachel.  But  the  handsome  young 
husband  is  very  slow  in  coming,  and  I'm  getting  dreadfully 
old — eighteen  last  birthday.  They  advertise  for  husbands  in 
New  York  when  they  grow  quite  desperate.  I'll  wait  six 
months  longer,  and  if  he  doesn't  come  of  himself  by  the  end 
of  that  time,  I'll  send  two  dollars  to  the  *  Herald  '  office  and 
try  my  fate  in  print. " 

Rachel  shook  her  head,  and  replenished  her  young  lady's 
cup. 

**  Have  patience,  my  dear;  he'll  come,  depend  upon  it.  I 
was  twenty-eight  when  I  got  married — you've  time  enough 
yet  Laura,  you'll  be  sick  if  you  eat  any  more  candy,  and 
it's  tijpie  little  girls  were  in  bed. " 


(i 


am 

4i 
i( 

twil 
mad 
Give 
siste 
and 
S 
5ng, 

(4 


Magdalen's  vow. 


:85 


•*Yes,"  said  Magdalen;  **  little  girls  should  go  to  roost 
with  little  chicisens.  Corae,  Laura;  auntie  will  put  you  to 
bed  herself,  and  the  biggest  doll  shall  sleep  with  you  all 
night.  *' 

Magdalen  bore  her  off,  and  it  was  a  long  time  before  she 
came  down.  When  she  did,  the  radiance  had  left  her  face, 
and  her  cheeks  were  wet  with  tears. 

**  I  have  been  singing  Laura  to  sleep,*'  she  said.  **  She  is 
sleeping  with  dolly  hugged  tight  in  her  arms,  and — ob> 
Rachel,  there  is  such  a  look  of  her  mother  in  her  facel" 

**  Yes,"  Rachel  said,  very  quietly,  *'  she  does  look  like  her; 
not  at  all  like  Mm,** 

**  Thank  God,  she  does  not!"  the  girl  cried,  passionately. 
•*  1  would  hate  her  if  she  djil." 

"Mydear!"- 

**  I  tell  you  I  should — I  could  not  help  it — I  would  forget 
she  was  Laura's  child  if  she  had  that  monster's  face,  and  I 
should  hate  her  as  1  hate  him!'* 

**  But,  my  dear — "  very  much  shocked. 

**  Oh,  don't  talk  to  me!"  Magdalen  cried.  "  1  do  forget 
sometimes — though  never  forget  long — and  I  abhor  myself 
for  it.  Two  years — two  long  years — and  no  nearer  the  end 
yet!  When  I  think  of  it,  Rachel,  it  sets  me  wild.  Two 
years,  and  no  nearer  finding  that  villain  than  the  day  Laura 
was  laid  in  her  grave!" 

"  But,  my  child,  what  can  you  do?    It  is  not  your  fault." 

**  No.  Heaven  knows  I  have  sought  for  him — I  have  in- 
quired for  him — I  have  looked  for  him  everywhere.  Was  it 
not  in  the  hope  of  meeting  him  that  I  went  to  New  York  un- 
der the  name  of  Wayne?  But  all  in  vain  1  have  tried,  until  I 
am  tempted  to  give  up  in  despair." 

**  Better  so,  dear  child.     1  wish  you  would," 

**  Never!"  Magdalen  cried,  her  eyes  flashing  black  in  the 
twilight — **  never,  while  my  life  lasts!  I  will  keep  the  vow  I 
made  beside  my  dead  sister's  grave,  or  he  or  I  shall  perish! 
Give  up?  I  tell -you,  Rachel,  when  I  think *of  my  father,  my 
sister,  my  brother,  my  hate  and  my  wrongs  burn  in  my  heart, 
and  drive  me  nearly  mad.'* 

She  trod  up  and  down  like  a  young  lioness,  her  eyes  blaz- 
ing, her  hands  clinched — a  fierce  young  Nemesis. 

**  But,  Magdalen,  this  is  all  very  wrong,  very  wicked,  very 
unchristian.'^ 

*'  I  don't  believe  it!  *  A  life  for  a  life  '  was  Jehovah's  com- 
mand. It  is  justice— and  justice  should  be  done  though  the 
heavens  fall  1" 


;-V 


!^i:^--' 


fl6 


MAGDALEN'S    YOVt, 


(< 


m' 


p 


Ab,  Magdalen,  be  merciful,  be  womanly.     Not  *a  life 
for  a  life,'  bat  *  Vengeance  is  mine;  J.  will  repay.'  " 

**  Don't  talk  to  me — don't!'*  the  girl  exclaimed,  passion- 
ately. **  You  can  not  feel  as  I  feel.  It  was  my  father,  my 
sister,  viy  brother  who  were  done  to  death.  Oh,  my  God!'' 
she  cried,  raising  her  clasped  hands,  **  hear  me — help  me  to 
find  this  man!" 

There  was  a  pause.  The  old  woman  was  awed  by  the  im- 
passioned vehemence  and  despair  she  could  not  comprehend. 

"You  never  will,"  she  said  at  last — "  you  never  will  find 
him.  He  may  be  dead ;  he  may  be  at  the  otherjend  of  the 
universe;  he  may  be  in  prison  for'life." 

**  He  may — he  may  be;  but  he  also  may  not  be.  You  and 
I  are  alive — why  not  he?  It  is  not  that  which  makes  me  fear 
■ — makes  me  despair.  It  is  that  if  I  met  him  to-morrow  I 
should  not  know  him;  if  I  stood  face  to  face  with  him 
this  hour,  I  should  not  recognize  Laura's  destroyer.  He  is 
young  and  he  is  tall;  that  is  everything  I  know  about  him. 
His  name,  his  hair,  his  whiskers,  all  were  false.  You  might 
hardly  know  him  yourself  if  you  met  him  again.  1  may  have 
sat  by  his  side,  heard  his  voice,  held  his  hand,  and  left  him 
nothing  the  wiser.  I  suppose^  it  is  only  in  sensation  novels 
and  melodramas  that  people  go  about  with  convenient  straw- 
berry marks.  There  seems  nothing  left  for  me  but  give  up 
in  despair." 

She  sunk  down  wearily,  but  looked  around  the  same  in- 
stant in  surprise,  for  old  Kachel  had  started  to  her  feet  all  at 
once,  violently  excited. 

**  The  markl"  she  cried — **  the  mark!  I  never  thought  of 
it  before — the  mark  on  Maurice  Langley's  arm!" 

**  What     mark?"     questioned     Magdalen,     breathlessly. 
**  What  mark?    Speak,  Rachel!    One  by  which  1  may  know- 
him?"  :     .        ^ 

**  One  by  which  you  may  know  Him  among  a  thousand — a 
mark  not  to  be  mistaken.  I  recollect  it  as  well,  after  three 
years,  as  if  it  had  been  three  hours." 

"Thank  Heaven!"  Magdalen  fervently  exclaimed — **  thank 
Heaven!  1  may  then  find  him  yet!  Tell  me  what  it  is  like, 
Kachel." 

**  It  was  by  mere  accident  I  saw  it,"  said  Rachel;  **  and 
you  might  meet  Maurice  Langley  a  million  times,  and  never 
nave  an  opportunity  of  seeing  his  arm.  It  was  one  day  he 
had  slightly  sprained  his  wrist,  and  I  had  unfastened  his  shirt- 
sleeve and  rolled  it  up  to  the  elbow,  to  pour  water  on  the 
Bf  rain.    That  was  how  I  saw  the  mark." 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


JW 


**  And  what  was  it  like?" 

**  Like  nothing  I  ever  saw  before.  It  was  no  natural  mark; 
it  was  tattooing,  and  covered  almost  the  whole  of  the  inside 
of  the  part  of  the  arm  between  elbow  and  wrist.  It  was  so 
curious  that  Willie  and  Laura  and  I  forgot  for  awhile  all  about 
the  sprain  in  examining  it.''  _  . 

"Well?'' 

**  First,"  said  Kachel,  **  there  was  a  sort  of  wreath,  done  in 
blue  ink  —  gr^ipes  and  leaves  —  quite  perfect.  Inside  the 
wreath,  done  in  red  ink,  there  was  a  heart  with  a  dagger 
through  it,  and  drops  falling,  like  drops  of  blood.  Surmount- 
ing this>  in  blaok  ink,  was  a  capital  letter  *  B. '  And,  now  I 
think  of  it,  *  B '  must  have  been  the  initial  of  his  family 
name,  though  he  explained  it  away  at  the  time.  The  device 
was  the  '  Bleeding  heart,'  and  very  well  it  was  done,  and  very 
much  it  must  have  hurt  him  to  get  it  done.  He  laughed  over 
it,  and  said  a  sailor,  with  half  his  body  illuminated  in  like 
manner,  had  tattooed  it  when  he  was  a  boy.  But  if  ever  you 
see  an  arm  with  that  device — which  isn't  likely — you  may 
know  the  owner  of  that  arm  is  Maurice  Langley." 

"  Thank  Heaven/'  Magdalen  repeated,  **  I  have  found 
some  distinct  clew  at  last!  Accident  revealed  it  once  to  you 
— accident  may  reveal  it  once  again  to  me." 

Rachel  shook  her  head. 

**  It  is  very  unlikely.  You  might  live  under  the  same  roof 
with  him  for  years,  and  never  see  that  mark.  Oh,  my  dear, 
give  up  thinking  about  it!  Be  happy  yourself,  if  you  can, 
and  let  poor  Laura  rest  in  her  grave. ' 

**No,  Rachel,  no,"  Magdalen  said,  resolutely;  **I  will 
never  give  up!  1  could  not  rest  in  my  own  grave,  if  1  died 
to-morrow,  with  my  vow  unfulfilled.  Be  happy?  How  can 
1  be  happy,  with  my  only  brother  in  a  felon  s  cell,  my  only 
sister  in  a  disgraced  grave?  Am  I  a  monster,  that  I  should 
even  try  to  forget,  while  the  cold-blooded,  matchless  villain, 
who  has  wrought  the  ruin  of  all  I  love,  goes  free  before  the 
world?  I  tell  you  no,  Rachel!  If  I  live  to  be  a  hundred, 
i^ears  old,  I  will  never  give  up!  Don't  try  to  alter  my  pur- 
pose. Sooner  or  later,  so  sure  as  there  is  a  just  and  avenging 
God  above,  I  will  meet  that  man  and  punish  him  for  his 
crime!"  '^ >?.  :--^>-.  ■•:      r. ,.;:-,; ^i^- 

She  strode  up  and  down  the  room  like  a  tragedy  queen,  her 
face  pale,  her  eyes  flashing,  her  voice  ringing  like  a  bell.  If 
George  Barstone  could  have  seen  her  at  that  moment,  I  doubt 
if  he  would  have  known  again  the  calm-eyed,  gentle-yoic^d 
girl  of  Mrs.  Howard's  parlor. 


fis 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW* 


Old  Bachel  sighed  heavily.  She  knew  it  was  all  very  wicked 
and  unwomanly,  this  wild  talk  of  revenge;  but  she  knew,  too, 
the  indomitable  nature  of  her  nursling.  When  she  spoke, 
her  words  were  commonplace  and  far  from  the  subject. 

**  You  must  be  very  tired,  my  dear,  after  your  day's  travel. 
Hadn't  you  better  go  to  bed?" 

The  twilight  had  faded  out  in  the  pale  gray  blank,  and  on 
the  edge  of  the  turquois  sky  glimmered  palely  the  new  moon. 
She  rose  to  draw  the  curtain  and  light  the  lamp  as  she  spoke. 
"  No,"  replied  Magdalen,  abruptly  turning  away;  **  I  am 
going  out." 

"My  dear!    At  this  hour!    Where?"  '     _  ; 

**  To  Laura's  grave." 

With  that  answer,  the  girl  left  the  room  and  went  upstairs. 
Five  minutes  later,  and  she  passed  out  the  front  door,  dressed 
for  her  walk.  The  old  nurse  sighed  and  shook  her  head  fore- 
bodingly. 

"  1  wish  she  didn't  remember  so  well,"  she  said  to  herself. 

**  She  will  ruin  her  whole  life  with  this  mad,  unchristian 
scheme  of  revenge.  I  know  that  he  deserves  punishment,  if 
ever  man  deserved  it;  but  it  is  madness  for  to  think  she  will 
meet  him  and  know  him,  and  inflict  it.  I  wish  she  would 
ever  forget." 

Vain  wish!  Magdalen  All  ward  would  never  forget,  never 
forgive.  You  could  read  that  in  the  white  rigidity  of  her 
face,  in  the  dusky  fire  of  her  eyes,  as  she  walked  along  in  the 
silvery  moonlight  to  her  sister's  grave.  Like  sheeted  ghosts 
in  the  solemn  light  rose  up  the  ghastly  grave-stones:  but 
there  was  no  superstitious  fear  in  her  brave  nature,  and  she 
walked  steadily  on  to  the  three  graves  under  the  firs. 

**  My  poor  Laura — my  poor  sister!"  she  sadly  murmured, 
the  slow  tears  welling  up.  **  What  a  weary  time  you  have 
lain  in  your  unavenged  grave!  I  have  tried — oh,  Heaven 
knows  how  ardently! — to  meet  the  man  who  wronged  you  so 
cruelly,  and  tried  in  vain.  But  some  day,  sooner  or  later,  I 
will  cross  his  path — I  will  stand  before  him,  his  accuser,  your 
avenger  I    And  then,  Laura — and  then!" 

Nearly  an  hour  after,  while  she  still  knelt  there,  heedless 
how  the  moments  sped,  a  hand  fell  upon  her  shoulder,  and 
looking  up  she  saw  her  faithful  nurse. 

**  Thinking  still,  my  dear?"  Rachel  said,  kindly.  **  Your 
poor  brain  will  get  dazed,  Magdalen.  What  is  it  all  about?" 
and  Magdalen  looked  up  from  the  moonlit  viow  with  sad. 
gomber  eye*. 


MAGDALEN'S   VOW. 


2d 


<( 


1  am  thinking  of  the  mark  on  Maurice  Langley'fl  arm," 
she  said.  '*  Kaohel,  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  but  1  have  a 
presentiment — a  conviction — that  1  will  meet  that  man  before 
long." 


,  -':    "      CHAPTER    V.       ; 

'    GOLDEN   WILLOWS. 

Punctual  to  the  moment,  on  Friday  morning,  Mr.  George 
BarstoP.e  made  his  appearance  in  a  cab  at  the  residence  of 
Mrs.  Howard,  and  by  that  lady  (drowned  in  tears)  Miss  Wj^v  >e 
and  her  belongings  were  given  into  custody. 

If  the  truth  must  be  told,  and  the  weakness  of  the  most 
amiable  of  mankind  expressed,  Mr.  Barstone  had  been  in  a 
fever  for  the  hour  to  come.  The  great  gray  eyes  and  shining 
tresses  of  Mrs.  Howard's  governess  had  haunted  him  strange- 
ly and  pertinaciously  during  the  intervening  time.  If  he  sat 
placidly  smoking  his  big  brown  meerschaum,  the  exquisite 
face  shone  on  him  through  the  misty  vapor,  like  a  star 
through  a  fog;  if  he  went  to  the  theater,  or  sat  down  to  din- 
ner>  or  sauntered  along  Broadway,  the  pale  face  and  fair 
brown  hair  rose  up  before  him  and  biotted  out,  for  the  time 
being,  everything  else.  But,  then,  men  naturally  take  an  in- 
terest in  their  aunt's  governesses.  If  she  had  been  the  amia- 
ble owner  of  red  hair  and  a  pug  nose,  no  doubt  it  would  have 
been  just  the  same.        ^  ':, 

The  June  weather  was  at  its  brightest  and  best  when  Mr. 
Barstone  and  his  fair  companion  started  on  their  **  Down 
East  "  journey,  and  the  jocund  sunshine  was  reflected  in  the 
gentleman's  beaming  face.  But  Miss  Wayne,  distraite,  not 
to  say  gloomy,  sat  with  her  veil  down,  gazing  out  at  the  sun- 
lit landscape  flitting  by.  Mr.  Barstone  noticed  this  present- 
ly, and  gave  up  trying  to  be  entertaining. 

**  She  has  been  to  see  her  friends  in  the  country,*'  he 
thought,  **  and  perhaps  has  found  a  screw  loose  somewhere. 
She  seems  out  of  spirits,  poor  little  thing!  so  I  won't  bore  her 
talking. " 

So  Mr.  Barstone  pulled  out  the  morning  paper,  got  into  the 
politics,  and  forgot  the  flight  of  time  and  the  young  lady  be- 
side him.  But  she  was  too  pretty  to  be  forgotten  long,  and 
when  they  reached  Hartford  and  stopped  for  refreshments, 
he  insisted  on  her  leaving  the  car  and  having  something  to 
eat 

**  Traveling's  hungry  business,"  he  remarked,  profoundly; 
**  it  always  makes  me  ravenous,  and  you've  had  no  dinner. 


30 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


But  Miss  Wayne  was  not  ravenous,  and  only  wanted  a  cup 
of  tea,  and  then  walked  up  and  clown  the  platform  by  herself 
until  the  bell  rang.  She  had  thrown  back  her  veil,  and  her 
face  looked  sad  and  downcast  as  she  resumed  her  seat. 

**  She's  lonely,  perhaps,  leaving  Mrs.  Howard,"  reflected 
Mr.  Barstone,  looking  at  her  with  pitying  interest;  **  and  she 
is  going  among  strangers  who  may  ill  use  her,  for  t!ll  she 
knows.  I  wish  she  was  my  sister!  It'c  bad  enough  for  a 
man — a  great  rough  fellow  like  me — to  knock  about  the  sharp 
corners  of  this  crooked  world;  but  for  a  pretty, \^ el icate 
creature  like  that!  I  do  think,"  mused  the  young  man, 
rather  irrelevantly,  **  she  has  the  most  beautiful  face  1  ever 
saw." 

In  the  amber  haze  of  the  early  afternoon  the  passengers  for 
Milford  got  out  at  the  junction.  There  was  no  conveyance 
waiting  for  Mr.  Barstone  and  his  companion,  but  he  explained 
away  that  little  circumstance. 

**  I  know  how  cramping  it  is  to  the  energies  to  sit  all  day 
in  the  cars,  and  I  thought  you  would  like  to  stretch  your— 
I  mean,"  said  Mr.  Barstone,  checking  himself,  in  considera- 
ble embarrassment,  **  as  the  walk  from  the  junction  to  the 
town  is  only  half  a  mile,  you  might  prefer  it." 

**  And  I  do,"  said  Miss  Wayne,  accepting  his  proffered 
arm.     **  How  very  smoky  your  Milford  is." 

*'  So  many  manufactories,  you  see,"  replied  the  Milfordian. 

Quite  a  thriving  and  bustling  place,  I  assure  you,  though 
rather  grimy  on  the  face  of  it.  It  is  a  lively  sight  on  Satur- 
day and  Sunday  afternoons,  when  the  factory  ladies  turn  out 
and  parade  the  streets.  They're  in  the  caterpillar  state  all 
the  week — dirty  faces,  and  no  crinoline — but  on  those  two 
days  they  wash  up,  and  come  out  gaudy  butterflies,  in  glanc- 
ing silks  and  artificial  flowers.  They  have  hard  work,  and 
one  pities  them  sometimes;  but,  on  the  whole,  they  look 
rather  jolly,  and  as  if  they  enjoyed  it." 

Miss  Wayne  found  very  little  to  interest  her  in  the  noisy, 
sooty,  manufacturing  town  of  Milford.  Beyond  the  sooty 
streets,  the  blue,  bright  river  flowed,  sparkling  in  the  glorious 
sunshine  as  if  sown  with  diamonds. 


(( 


Mr.  Barstone  turned  out  of  the  black  streets  presently  into 
a  more  quiet  and  aristocratic  thoroughfare,  where  trees  and 
shutters  were  dazzlingly  green  and  houses  and  curtains  vivid- 
ly white.  Before  one  of  these  dwellings  a  horse  and  buggy 
stood  waiting,  the  horsO  asleep  in  the  lazy  sunshine,  and  the 
l>oy  who  held  the  reins  very  little  better.     This  eqa^)age  and 


MAGDALEN  ^8    VOW. 


31 


the  spotless  wooden  mansion  before  which  it  stood/  Mr.  Bar- 
stoue  pointed  out  with  considerable  interest. 

**  l^at's  the  trap  from  Golden  Willows,  with  Sam  the  pony, 
and  Bill  the  driver,  fast  asleep.  Reminds  one  of  Dickens's 
Fat  Boy,  doesn't  it?  This  is  my  office— behold  that  door- 
plate:  *  G.  Barstone,  Attorney  at  Law.'  A  man  might  do 
tetter  m  Hartford  or  New  York;  but  what  with  factory  hands 
breaking  each  other's  beads,  and  manufacturers  cheating  one 
another  and  their  employers,  and  breach-of -promise  cases,  and 
such  odds  and  ends,  business,  even  here,  is  delightfully  brisk." 

Mr.  Barstone  assisted  Miss  Wayne  into  the  buggy,  took  a 
seat  beside  her,  and  drove  off.  Bill,  the  drowsy  driver,  woke 
up,  to  tLio  a  prolonged  stare  at  the  young  lady,  and  then  re- 
lapsed into  a  back  seat  and  his  former  somnambulistic  state. 

**  Has  Mr.  Philip  gone  yet,  Bill?"  inquired  Mr.  Barstone. 

"Went  this  morning,  sir,"  Bill  responded;  "seven-fifty 
train.  Miss  Fanny,  she  got  up,  she  did,  and  drove  him  to 
the  station  herself.     The  missis  ain't  been  very  well. " 

**  Ah!"  said  Mr.  Barstone,  gravely.  **  I  am  sorry  to  hear 
that.  My  aunt.  Miss  Wayne,  has  been  in  delicate  health  for 
many  years,  and  unable  to  leave  her  room."   . 

Miss  Wayne  murmured  her  sympathy.  They  were  bowl- 
ing along  a  pleasant  country  road  by  this  time,  with  waving 
trees  and  swelling  fields  on  either  hand,  and  blue  glimpses  of 
the  sparkling  river  beyond. 

**  Pretty  road,  is  it  not?"  quoth  the  lawyer.  *'  The  Lake 
Road  they  call  it.  You  can't  see  the  lake  yet.  It  is  about 
two  miles  in  length,  and  our  house  is  at  the  other  extremity. 
Golden  Willows  is  just  five  miles  from  Milford — near  enough 
to  be  convenient,  distant  enough  to  escape  the  noise  and  dirt. 
There's  the  lake  now — seven  feet  below  us. " 

Miss  Wayne  looked  over  the  road-side  embankment  and  saw 
the  lake  lying  between  green  slopes,  like  a  diamond  set  in 
emeralds.  Very  placid,  very  beautiful,  very  lonely^— no  living 
thing  near.  The  sunlight  lighted  the  center;  the  edges  were 
80  overhung  with  willovys  and  sycamores  as  to  be  in  blackest 
gloom.  Its  long,  white  shore  dazzled  the  eyes  like  the  sun- 
shine on  snow. 

*'  A  pretty  place,"  the  governess  said—**  a  beautiful  place; 
but,  oh,  so  lonely!     Is  it  always  like  this?" 

**  By  no  means,"  briskly  responded  the  young  man.  **  You 
should  see  it  Sunday  evenings  after  tea,  when  the  young  fac- 
tory ladies  and  their  beaus  come  here  to  do  the  sentimental  5n 
the  summer  twilight;  and  you  should  see  it  in  the  winter,  when 
it's  nicely  frosted  ffVer,  like  a  huge  wedding-cake^  and  the 


.%' 


i 

I 


112 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


le 
nt- 
in 
.  o: 
aw- 


ihermometer  isliremendously  below  zero,  and  half  a;.  \i:>pi\i-  - 
tion  of  Milford  are  strapped  up  in  ekatesl  By  the  "ay,  1  lioj  3 
yoii're  fond  of  skating,  Miss  Wayne;  if  you're  m  \  we'll  •  -  r 
and  make  you  fond  of  it.'' 

Miss  Wayne  laughed  good-naturedly  as  they  rf  v.ied  h> 
along,  and  Mr.  Barstone  proceeded : 

**  We'll  come  in  sight  of  our  house  directly.     D:y(y.  J  '.o' 
old  houses.  Miss  Wayne?    Because  Golden  Willows  .«  ol<'    «: 
age  goes,  in  New  England.     It  was  built  before  'he  lb  :,[>*' 
tion  by  a  *  Mayflower '  ancestor,  and  the  rooms  i   o  Uu^  .iuil ,, 
trifle  dark,  with  wainscoting  and  diamond-pane     ;L'«;eiB;'      . 
The  front  door  is  ponderous  enough  to  stand  a  sitge,  m 
bedrooms  are  grand,  gloomy,  and  peculiar.     It'r  i:.  ;  \ 
ed,  more's  the  pity;  but  one  wouldn't  be  surprise  i,  if  v 
in  the  dead  of  night,  one  saw  an  old  lady  sitting  i  •  the  '. 
the  bed  in  high-heeled  shoes,  and  satin  pettiooa.,  aik 
dered  hair  in  a  pyramid  on  the  top  of  her  head.     It  looks" like 
"that  sort  of  a  thing,  you  know." 

Miss  Wayne  laughed  once  more.  It  seemed  impossible  to 
entertain  gloomy  thoughts  lon^  in  the  genial  company  of  Mr. 
Barstone.  Being  all  sunshine  himself,  it  was  only  natural 
that  a  trifle  of  the  superabundant  light  and  happiness  of  his 
nature  should  illumine  less  fortunate  mortals  near  him. 

They  were  at  the  house,  driving  through  a  tall,  clanking 
gate-way,  up  a  straight  avenue,  where  great  maples  made 
greenibh  gloom  at  noonday.  To  the  right  there  was  an  orna- 
mental fish-pond,  with  trailing  yellow  willows  all  around^  and. 
a  willow  walk  led  away  to  the  left,  down  direct  to  the  lak& 
The  house  itself  was  long,  and  low,  and  quaint,  built  of  gray 
stone,  with  a  massive  door  and  peaked  porch,  all  overran 
with  sweetbrier  and  creeping  pine  roses. 

**  Such  a  pretty  place!"  Miss  Wayne  exclaimed,  her  eyea 
lighting — **  such  a  quiet,  pretty  place!  Golden  Willows  ia 
worthy  of  its  romantic  name." 

**  1  thought  you  would  like  it,"  said  Mr.  Barstone.  *'  There 
Isn't  a  tree,  or  a  stone,  or  a  flower  about  it  that  isn't  worth 
its  weight  in  gold  to  me.  Ah,  Fanny,  my  dear,  there  you 
are,  peeping  from  behind  the  curtain,  and  thinking  we  don't 
see  .you.  She's  gone.  Miss  Wayne,  but  she  was  reconnoiter- 
ing  a  second  ago." 

Miss  Wayne  smiled,  and  followed  her  leader  into  jibe  honae. 
She  had  seen  the  lace  curtain  raised  and  a  face  peeping  oat; 
bat  in  a  twinkling  it  was  withdrawn,  and  there  was  the  sound 
of  a  piano  and  a  girlish  voice  singing. 
.    Mr.  Barstone  led  the  way  into  a  long^  dueky  hall,  lidi  u^ 


HI 

r. 

P' 

1 

rs 

! 

i 

all 

1 

^^H  V  11 B  ' 

^H  fiHI  > 

d 
1 

si 

1 

Will ' 

Pill 

0 

d 

J 

i; 

g 

1 

i 

h 

1 

■IB 

B 

i' 

^^^^■I^H  . 

/ 
( 

MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


33 


IS 


m, 


i, 


pioiures  and  busts,  and  thenco  into  a  pretter  summer  parlor 
— carpet,  and  walls,  and  chuirs  all  white  and  blue.  CanarioB 
snug,  flowers  bloomed,  bouquets  in  fragile  porcelain  vases 
were  everywhere,  and  they  caught  the  last  verse  of  the  yooDg 
]ady*s  song  as  they  opened  the  door. 


«i 


Oh,  when  the  haya  are  all  my  own! 

I  know  a  heart  will  care; 
Oh!  when  the  gold  is  wooed  and  won, 

I  know  a  brow  will  wear — 
Aileen, 

I  know  a  brow  will  wear—" 


(( 


Very  pretty,  indeed!"  remarked  Mr.  Barstone,  remorse- 
lessly cutting  her  short;  '*  but  no  more  at  present  Please 
turn  round  and  welcome  the  master  of  the  house." 

The  young  lady  whirled  about  on  her  revolving  seat,  got 
up,  with  a  faint  exclamation,  and  held  out  one  pudgy  little 
hand. 

A  short,  roundabout  damsel  was  Miss  Fanny  Winters,  with 
a  prevailing  pinkness  of  skin,  flushed  cheeks,  profuse  brown 
hair  tinged  with  a  strong  suspicion  of  red,  brown-like  eyes, 
and  a  prevailing  expression  of  intense  good  nature. 

**  I'm  so  glad  you've  coma  back,  George,"  said  this  yoanff 
person,  kissing  him.  **  You've  no  idea  what  a  long,  stupid 
day  it  has  been.  Old  Doctor  What-you-may-call-him,  in  New 
York,  telegraphed  for  Phil  last  evening,  and,  of  course,  he 
had  to  start  the  lirst  thing  to-day.  And  Aunt  Lydia's  been 
ill,  and  I've  had  nothing  to  read,  and  no  permission  to  open 
the  piano,  and  I've  been  wishing  for  you — oh,  so  dreadfully!" 

**  As  a  1  ist  resource  against  blue  devils — much  obliged  t^ 
you.  Miss  Winters.  Miss  Wayne,  allow  me  to  introduce  your 
future  pupil,  Fanny  Winters." 

Miss  Winters  flirted  out  her  muslin  skirts,  starched  to  a 
painful  degree  of  stiffness,  and  made  Miss  Wayne  an  elabo- 
-rately  graceful  bow. 

f  **  1  am  very  glad  to  see  you.  Miss  Wayne,  and  1  hope  we 
shall  be  the  best  of  friends;  for  you've  no  idea  how  horridly 
dull  and  stupid  it  is  here — has  she,  George?  What  with  Aunt 
Lydia  sick,  and  George  in  Milford,  and  Phil  in  New  York,  I 
should  have  gone  stark,  staring  mad  of  loneliness  long  ago, 
only  for  the  circulating  library.  And  even  that  is  not  to  be 
depended  on  at  all  times,  for  the  most  interesting  pages  are 
generally  torn  out;  and  you  know  how  provoking  that  is.  I 
hope  you  like  novels,  Miss  Wayne;  because  if  you  do,  I'fii 
sure  we  will  get  along  together  splendidly." 

Yes/'  said  Mr.  Barstone,  "  if  you  don't  talk  Miss  Wayne 


<( 


Si 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


into  her  grave  iu  a  month.  Your  future  pupil,  you  poreeWe, 
emulates  your  friend,  Mrs.  Hov^ard.  iNonsense  flows  from 
her  lips  in  a  perennial  stream.  I  give  you  fair  warning,  Miss 
Wayna  Cut  her  short,  or  she'll  drive  you  to  the  verge  of 
idiocy." 

**  Having  survived  Mrs.  Howard  a  year,  I  think  1  am  proof 
against  anything  Miss  Winters  can  do  in  thab  line,"  said 
Magdalen,  laughing.  **  I  am  certain  we  will  get  on  together 
extremely  well." 

'  •*  And  you  won't  be  dreadful  about  history,  and  geology, 
and  rhetoric,  and  things,"  pleaded  Miss  Winters,  piteously; 
**  because  I  never  can  remember  old  red  sandstone,  and 
formations,  and  dates,  and  the  Gauls,  and  the  ancient 
Komaiis,  and  all  such  things  Miss  Giimwig  used  to  go  on  so 
about.  It  wasn't  a  bit  of  use;  it  only  made  my  head  ache, 
and  went  in  one  ear  and  out  at  the  other.  And  for  music 
and  French — I  like  polkas  when  they're  easy,  and  nice  little 
fables  to  translate,  and  if  1  get  the  spelling  and  the  genders 
wrong,  you  won't  be  cross,  will  you?  And  now  let's  go  up- 
stairs and  take  oft  your  things." 

'*  And  if  you  can  make  it  convenient.  Fan,  to  order  supper 
an  hour  earlier  than  usual,"  said  the  young  lawyer,  **  we  will 
be  infinitely  obliged  to  you,  for  Miss  Wayne  has  had  nothing 
Bince  breakfast,  and  my  appetite  is  always  in  working  con- 
dition." 

Miss  Winters  promised,  and  led  her  new  governess  upstairs, 
chaUmg  all  the  way  like  a  magpie. 

The  upper  hall  was  long,  dimly  lighted,  huLg  with  pictures, 
and  flanked  by  many  doors. 

**  These  are  the  chambers,"  said  Miss  Winters.  **  This  is 
Aunt  Lydia's.  You  can't  see  her  to-night,  you  know,  be- 
cause she  feels  poorly;  bat  you  will  to-morrow.  This  is 
George's  room,  this  is  Phil's,  and  on  this  other  side  are  yours 
and  mine.  !Now  take  your  things  off.  1  must  run  down  and 
gee  about  tea,  but  I'll  be  back  directly." 

The  governess's  chamber  was  a  very  neat  and  pretty  one, 
overlooking  the  orchard  and  lake.  The  wide,  green  prospect, 
the  steel-blue,  low-lying  lake, ,  the  swelling  expanse  of  green 
earth  and  azure  sky,  were  all  very  pleasant  after  her  cramped- 
up  city  experience. 

**  How  happy  I  might  be  here,"  she  thought — "  how  happy 
I  would  be,  if  I  were  like  other  girls  of  my  age — if  I  had  no 
dark  secret  to  cloud  and  trouble  my  life!  1  like  this  cheery 
Miss  Winters;  I  like  that  agreeable  Mr.  Barstoue.  If  I  could 
only  blot  oat  the  dreary  past,  and  be  simply  and  honestly 


ii«eiwiwg.g»w 


Magdalen's  vow. 


30 


bappy^  as  it  is  in  my  nature  to  be!  But  I  dare  not~I  will 
not!  Laura,  in  her  lonely  grave,  Willie,  in  his  gloomy  prison, 
must  not  be  forgotten.  I  must  never  give  up  my  search  for 
the  doable — the  treble  murderer.     I  must  keep  my  yowl'' 


CHAPTER  VI. 

SUMMER    DAYS. 

Miss  Winters  came  tripping  upstairs  again  before  th« 
governess  had  removed  her  bonnet,  her  pink  compltxion  a 
thought  deeper  by  the  exercise. 

**  I  have  ordered  peaches,  and  cream,  and  chocolate,  for 
tea,"  she  breathlessly  announced;  **  and  1  hope  you  like  sally- 
lunns.  Miss  Wayne.     Our  Bridget  makes  them  lovely.     What 

Sretty  hair  you  ve  got,  and  such  a  lot  of  it!  Mine's  thin.  It 
oesn't  look  thin,  you  kno^,  but  it  iSf  and  I  do  most  of  it  up 
in  front — corkscrew  curls,  George  calls  'em.  Don't  you  like 
the  Btyle?" 

Miss  Wayne's  abundant,  glittering  locks  were  worn  in  a 
shining  coronet,  coiled  around  her  stately  head. 

*'*'  I  find  it  more  convenient  to  wear  mine  like  this.  Miss 
Winters." 

"  And  ever  so  much  more  becoming.  But  please  don't  call 
me  Miss  Winters;  nobody  ever  does  so  except  Aunt  Lydia 
when  she  scolds  me.  Call  me  Fanny.  And,  oh,  please!  may 
I  call  you  Magdalen?    It  is  such  a  sweet,  pretty  name." 

"  Call  me  Magdalen,  by  all  means.  I  greatly  prefer  it  to 
Miss  Wayne.  I  believe  I  shall  not  be  able  to  change*  my 
dress.     My  trunk  has  not  arrived." 

*'  It  doesn't  matter  in  the  least,"  said  Fanny.  **  There  will 
be  nobody  to  see  you,  you  know.  George  doesn't  know  cot- 
ton from  brocade.  Men  are  as  stupid  as  cows,  mostly,  about 
girls'  fixings.     Who  are  you  in  mourning  for,  Magdalen?" 

A  dark  cloud  swept  over  the  fair  face  of  Miss  Winters'  goy- 
t^mess. 

*' For  my  father  and  sister." 

**  Oh,  you've  lost  your  father,  then!  So  have  I.  Is  your 
mother  alive?" 

**  My  mother  died  when  I  was  a  child." 

**  And  so  did  mine!"  cried  Fanny,  looking  charmed  at  the 
coincidence.  **  And  whatever  would  have  become  of  me  with- 
out Aunt  Lydia,  I'm  sure  I  don'^  know.  I've  been  here  four 
years,  and  I  was  a  dreadful  little  ignoramus  of  ten  years. 
And  I've  had  at  least  twenty  governesses  since." 
Is  it  possible?    Twenty?" 


j> 


•• 


30 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


'  **  Well,  you  see,  some  of  them  were  nasty  old  pumps,  and 
some  of  thorn  mailo  love  to  Goorgo,  and  some  didn't  know 
much  more  than  I  did  myself,  and  some — oh,  we*ve  had  a 
precious  time  with  them,  I  oan  tell  youl  But  1  feel  sure  you 
and  I  will  get  along  together  lovely.  You  don't  look  as  if 
you  could  be  cross,  and  fussy,  and  hateful." 
.^.*J^I  wonder  your  aunt  did  not  send  you  to  school?" 

**  No;  she  likes  to  have  me  at  homo.  I'm  company  for  her 
when  she's  well,  and  she's  very  fond  of  mo  and  very  good  to 
me,  although  she  scolds  considerable,  and  says  I'm  silly  and 
frivolous.  But,  then,  how  is  one  to  help  being  silly  and 
frivolous  when  one's  happy?  Though,  goodness  knows,  I'm 
not  happy  half  the  time,  mewed  up  here.  It's  all  very  well 
when  Phil's  down,"  said  Fanny,  turning  two  or  three  shades 
pinker,  suddenly;  "  but  that's  not  often  nowadays." 

"  Who  is  Phil?" 

**  Aunt  Lydia's  other  nephew,"  responded  Fanny.  **  He's 
fi  doctor,  you  know,  and  lie  practices  in  New  York.  He  was 
here  for  a  fortnight  until  yesterday,  when  the  old  doctor,  his 
partner,  telegraphed  for  his  return.  They  say  he's  like 
George,  but  I  can't  see  it;  and  i  jike  him  a  great  deal  better. 
He's  more  polite  and  gallant,  and  sings  and  dances  better. 
George  has  quite  a  little  fortune  of  his  own,  but  Phil  has 
nothing,  and  they're  orphans  like  me,  and  Aunt  Lydia 
brought  them  up.  George  is  her  favorite,  and  he  and  Phil 
are  like  twin-brothers.  And  now,  if  you're  ready,  Magda- 
len, we'll  go  down,  for  we've  been  chatting  till  it's  six  o'clock, 
and  1  ordered  supper  at  six." 

Magdalen  smiled.  The  chatting  had  been  a  very  one-sided 
afiFair,  and  Miss  Winters  had  poured  forth  these  little  family 
details  with  a  volubility  it  would  have  been  cruel  to  check. 

Tea  was  waiting;  and  so  was  Mr.  Barstone,  rather  impa- 
tiently, v 

**  1  thought  you  two  young  ladies  had  retired  for  the* 
night,"  he  said.  *'  Miss  Wayne,  has  Fanny  been  giving  you 
the  autobiography  of  our  family,  and  every  other  family  in 
Milford,  during  the  last  hour?" 

**  Now,  George,"  cried  Miss  Winters,  reproachfully,  **  how 
can  you?  I  never  said  a  word  about  the  families  of  Milford 
— did  1,  Magdalen?  And  1  don't  think  you  need  always  be 
throwing  my  talk  in  my  face,  because  you  generally  have  a 
good  deal  to  say  yoursflf.  Magdalen,"  whisking  suddenly 
about,  **  let's  take  a  walk  by  the  lake  after  tea.  It's  such  a 
dear,  romantic,  dismal  spot  that  1  lo7e  to  go  there.    It  makes 


MAODALEN  8    VOW. 


87 


I 


me  ftlwaya  think  of  lonely  m ardors  and  snicidcs,  and  kind  of 
chills  one's  blood,  you  know." 

**  An  excellent  reuson  for  taking  Miss  Wayne  there/*  said 
George  Harstone,  gravely.  **  It  is  su^'gestive  of  chills  and 
fever,  I  think  myself.  And  as  for  murders  and  suicides,  it 
has  been  the  scene  of  more  than  one  tragedy." 

Supper  over,  the  trio  loft  the  house  for  their  saunter  to  the 
lake.  Tho  red  glory  of  the  .Jutie  sunsot  blazed  over  land  and 
lake,  and  kindled  both  into  luminous  splendor. 

*'  Golden  Willows — poetical  and  appropriate/'  said  Magda- 
Jen.     '*  I  never  saw  a  prettier  place. 

**  But  horribly  dull,^'  said  Fanny.  "  I  thought  it  sweetly 
retty  the  first  time  I  saw  it,  too;  but  after  being  cooped  up 
our  years.  Its  beauties  begin  to  pall  a  little.  Perhaps  Mariana 
thought  the  Moated  Grange  a  pretty  place  at  first,  though 
she  got  sick  enough  of  it  after,  j)Oor  thing!  But  my  seven- 
teenth birthday  comes  in  September,  and  Aunt  Lydia  shall 
have  no  peace  until  she  consents  to  let;  me  have  a  party.  She 
doesn't  like  parties;  but  she  vinst  consent,  if  I  keep  on  tor- 
menting her  long  enough.     Til  begin  to-morrow." 

They  were  walking  down  the  green  avenue  that  led  to  the 
lake,  while  B\inny  chattered — a  delightful  avenue,  shaded  and 
cool,  with  birds  twittering  in  the  branches,  and  the  red  lances 

J  of  the  sunset  shooting  athwart  the  greenish  gloom. 

I  **  A  pleasant  promenade,  is  it  not.  Miss  Wayne?"  said  Mr. 

j  Barstone.  *'  Secluded  and  sentimental,  and  that  kind  of 
thing.  This  is  where  Fanny  takes  my  cousin  Phil  when  she 
wants  to  quote  Tennyson  and  Owen  Meredith  to  him,  and 
get  him  to  make  love  to  her.  Did  you  wring  a  proposal  out 
of  him.  Fan,  before  you  let  him  go? 

**  Now,  George,"  in  shrill  reproach,  and  reddening  violent- 
ly, **  Tm  ashamed  of  you!  What  will  Miss  Wayne  think?  If 
Phil  and  I  do  walk  here  sometimeb,  it's  because  he  likes  to 
smoke  under  the  trees,  and  1  don't  mind  cigar  smoke  a  bit, 
and  I  go  with  him  because  one  must  have  some  one  to  talk 
to.  I'm  sure  I  wish  you  and  he  could  change  places.  He's 
worth  a  dozen  of  you;  and  so  you'll  say,  Magdalen,  when  you 
see  him. "  ^ 

**  Think  better  of  Miss  Magdalen's  judgment,  Fanny;  1 
don't  believe  she'll  say  anything  of  the  sort." 

They  sauntered  along  the  edge  of  the  lake,  lying  dark  and 
somber  and  deserted,  until  Miss  Winters,  complaining  of 
fatigue,  returned. 

The  early  rising  moon  was  lifting  its  silvery  diok  oyer  the 


38 


Magdalen's  vow. 


hill'tops^  and  the  white^  bright  evening  star  swnng  in  the 
azure  beside  it. 

*'  It's  so  nice!''  sighed  Miss  Winters,  with  a  languishing 
glance  at  the  moon.  *'  I  do  like  moonlight,  of  all  things. 
One  could  almost  fancy  it  Venice,  if  these  hills  were  palaces, 
and  the  trees  churches,  and  the  lake  a  canal,  and  the  shadows 
gondolas.  It  must  be  lovely  to  live  in  Venice — among  doges, 
bridger  of  sighs,  and  guitars,  and  gondolas,  and  things.  Can 
you  sing,  *  Now  Rest  Thee  Here,  My  Gondolier,'  Magdalen? 
1  dote  on  Moore's  Melodies;  though  George  says  they're 
mawkish  and  lovesick.  But,  then,  George  has  no  more  soul 
than  a  kangaroo!  I  dare  say,"  cried  Fanny,  with  a  reproach- 
ful glance  at  the  gentleman,  "  he  would  like  to  smoKe  this 
minute." 

**  I  certainly  should,"  responded  Mr.  Barstone,  promptly, 
**  and  with  Miss  Wayne's  permission  I  will.  May  If  A 
thousand  thanks." 

It  was  nearly  nine  when  they  returned  to  the  house,  and 
Magdalen  retired  at  once — retired  with  the  fag-end  of  a  tune 
on  her  lips,  and  a  happy  glow  at  her  heart,  to  sleep  soundly 
and  sweetly  as  a  tired  child.     . 

She  rose  late  next  morning,  and  ere  she  had  finished  dress- 
ing, Fanny's  voice  was  heard  at  the  door. 

**  Are  you  up  yet,  Magdalen?  because  if  you  are,  I  want  to 
come  in."        "  .,  . 

**  Come  in,  then." 

Miss  Winters  entered,  volumnious  in  clean,  starched  mus- 
lin, and  fluttering  with  pink  ribbons,  her  face  ashine  with 
good  humor,  cold  water,  and  honey  soap. 

**  How  did  you  sleep?"  inquired  the  young  girl.  **  Well, 
I  should  think  by  your  face,  and  the  hour  you  get  up.  It's 
half  past  eight,  and  our  breakfast  hour,  and  George  is  wait- 
ing; so  please  hurry  up." 

They  descended  to  breakfast,  to  find  Mr.  Barstone  whistling 
to  the  canaries  while  he  waited.  Immediately  after  the  meal 
he  departed  on  foot  for  his  ofiice  in  Milford,  and  Fanny  bore 
off  her  governess  to  see  Aunt  Lydia. 

Miss  Barstone — for  Aunt  Lydia  was  Miss  Barstone  at  five- 
and-forty — was  seated  over  her  breakfast  when  they  entered 
the  room.  A  large  apartment^ — more  like  a  library  than  a 
sleeping-room — pictures,  and  books,  and  busts,  and  flowers, 
and  birds  everywhere.     Miss  Barstone — a  little  body,  with  a 

Eale,  pinched  face,  keen  eyes,  and  a  resolute  mouth— hold  out 
er  hand  and  greeted  Magdalen  kindly. 
**  You  are  Miss  Wayne?    How  do  you  do,  my  dear?    You 


V 


iJ 


MAGDALEN'S   VOW. 


39 


"^•JiiV 


are  very  welcome  to  Golden  Willows.    Take  this  arm-chair, 
Miss  Wayne." 

Magdalen  seated  herself.  The  searching  look  of  the  bright, 
keen  eyes  fluttered  her  a  little,  but  the  frank  smile  was  very 
like  her  nephew's. 

*'  I  couldn't  see  you  yesterday,  my  derr.  1  was  poorly- 
very  poorly,  indeed.  Tm  a  confirmed  invalid,  you  know.  I 
never  quit  my  chamber,  and  a.  little  thing  upsets  ine.  My 
jnephew  Philip's  sudden  departure  was  a  shock — I  had  hoped 
he  would  stay  for  the  summer.  My  dear,  what  a  pretty  girl 
you  are!" 

Magdalen  blushed  and  laughed. 

'*  George  and  Fanny  both  told  me,  but  I  really  didn't  ex- 
pect—  Excuse  me,  my  dear;  it  sounds  like  flattery,  but  I 
don't  mean  it  so.  You're  a  great  deal  too  young  and  too 
handsome  to  be  a  governess.     How  old  are  you?" 

"  Why,  Aunt  Lydia,"  exclaimed  fanny,  **  you  knov? 
George  told  us  in  his  letter!  '  She's  eighteen." 

**  Too  young!  too  young!  And  you've  been  a  governess 
over  a  year?  Ah,  poor  thing!  It's  a  hard  life,  and  you  don't 
look  fitted  for  a  hard  life.     I  hope  you'll  be  happy  here." 

**  Dear  madame,"  Magdalen  said,  the  tears  in  her  eyes,  **  I 
know  1  shall."     _. 

**  And  you  are  an  orphan.  Miss  Wayne?" 

*'  Yes,  Miss  Barstone,"  very  sadly. 

**  Any  relatives,  my  dear?" 

**  I  have  a  brother,  poor  fellow!"  Magdalen  said,  hurried- 
ly; "  but  I  hardly  dare  hope  ever  to  see  him  again.  And  1 
have  a  baby  niece,  with  an  old  nurse,  away  in  New  Hamp- 
shire, my  native  state.     That  is  all." 

**  Poor  child!  But  you  and  Fanny  will  sympathize  with 
each  other,  for  she  is  an  orphan,  too.  Not  a  very  forlorn- 
looking  one,  though,  is  she?  You  must  be  very  strict  and 
^  severe  with  her,  Miss  Wayne,  for  she's  a  shockingly  idle,  heed- 
less girl.  You  know  you  are,  Fanny!"  said  Miss  Barstone, 
with  a  backward  frown  at  the  culprit  hanging  over  her  chair. 

**  Yes,  1  know,"  said  Fanny;  *'  but  it's  nice  to  be  idle,  and 
you  don't  like  me  any  the  worse  for  it.  Now,  if  you're  done 
with  Magdalen,  I'll  take  her  out  for  a  drive.  It  isn't  worth 
while  commencing  to  study  in  the  fag-end  of  the  week." 

She  bore  her  oil  into  her  own  maiden  bower,  all  one  litter 
of  albums,  novels,  and  half-finished  fancy-work,  while  she 
dressed  for  the  drive. 

On  their  way  down^  she  flung  open  another  door,  disclosing 


40 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


a  large,  elegantly  famished  room^  handsomer  than  any  Magda* 
len  had  yet  seen. 

**  This  is  the  spare  room,"  said  Fanny;  **  never  to  be  used 
until  Phil  or  George  get  married.  It's  sacred  ground,  this— 
dedicated  to  the  future  Mrs.  B." 

**  It  is  very  pretty,"  laid  Magdalen,  carelessly.  **.When  is 
it  likely  to  be  occupied?"  '  ^ 

**  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  replied  Miss  Winters,  shaking 
her  curls.  "  George  will  live  and  die  a  crusty,  musty, 
cranky,  cross  old  bachelor;  and  as  for  Phil — well,  I  can't 
say.     Half  the  girls  ia  Milford  are  dying  for  him." 

'*  Fanny  Winters  among  the  number?" 

**  Nonsense!"  said  Fanny,  very  pink  of  face,  indeed. 
"  There's  Bill  waiting  with  the  horses  and  buggy.  Come  on 
— I'll  show  you  all  taat's  worth  showing  in  the  neighbor- 
hood."    .  '      .      , 

It  was  a  pleasant  day — the  first  of  many  pleasant  days;  and 
Magdalen  All  ward's  new  life  began  under  a  summer  sky  w:t.h-< 
out  a  cloud — to  be  all  the  blacker  when  the  clouds  came. 


CHAPTER  VII.  ^ 

ME.    BARSTONE  PALLS  IN   LOVE. 

Juke  passed — July;  August  came.  The  days  went  like 
placid  dreams.  Magdalen  "  sat  in  sunshine,  calm  and  sweet," 
and  was  happy. 

They  were  very  good  to  her  at  Golden  Willows;  Miss  Bar- 
stone  was  the  most  ind  uigent  of  old  maijis  and  employers. 
Fanny  was  the  laziest  and  best-tempered  of  pupils,  and  Mr. 
George  Barstone — oh,  to  his  mi nu  there  was  nothing  else  un- 
der the  starry  sky  half  so  lovely  as  Fanny's  governess!  Golden 
W'Uows  had  always  been  a  pleasant  place  to  the  young  law- 
yer, but 't  had  never  quite  been  Paradise  before. 

He  had  never  felt  little  thrills  of  delight  shooting  through 
\his  system — a  kind  of  ecstatic  ague  vvi\en  his  thoughts  wan-" 
dered  homeward  from  the  office,  before  she  came.  He  didn't 
quite  understar.d  his  own  symptoms— he  didn't  take  the 
trouble  to  analyze  them.  Ho  accepted  the  facts  that  the  sun 
shone  brighter,  and  the  skies  were  bluer,  and  the  State  of 
Connecticut  a  great  Garden  of  Eden,  ana  never  inquired  too 
closely  what  had  wrought  Ihe  transformation. 

But  Miss  Wayne  had  other  slaves  at  her  chariot- wheels,  and 
bid  fair  to  become  the  bjllo  of  Milford.  Young  men  saw  her 
Sunday  afternoons  sitting  in  the  high-backed  pew,  between 
George  aui  Fanny,  her  starry  eyes  uplifted  to  the  preacher's 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


41 


^  — *««jjt« 


i»-fl« 


faoOj  and  the  August  sunshine  making  an  aureole  around  her 
golden  head,  and  gazed  in  speechless  admiration. 

There  was  nothing  half  so  handsome  in  all  the  place  as 
Miss  Wayne,  and  half  a  dozen  rich  mill-owners  were  ready  to 
fall  at  her  feet  at  one  encouraging  word,  before  the  end  of  the 
third  month.  But  Miss  Wayne  never  spoke  that  one  word. 
She  was  ^^racious  to  all,  in  a  qu3enly  sort  of  way — a  way  that 
decidedly  silenced  the  mill-owners. 

There  was  one  gentleman — not  a  rich  gentleman,  either — 
who  seemed  rather  a  favorite  with  the  stately  Magdalen,  how- 
ever. He  had  not  wealth — he  was  a  dry-goods  clerk  only — 
but  he  had  what,  with  woman,  is  very  often  better — beauty. 

He  was  gloriously  handsome,  this  Mr.  Frank  Hamilton; 
for  all  the  world  like  Count  Lara,  or  the  Corsair,  or  Childe 
Harold,  Miss  Winters  said;  tall  and  dark,  with  pathetic  black 
eyes  and  raven  hair. 

He  had  fallen  hopelessly  and  absurdly  in  love — this  young 
dry-goods  clerk — with  the  fair-haired  governess.  He  haunted 
Golden  Willows  like  an  uneasy  ghost,  and  gave  Mr.  George 
Barstone  the  first  real  inkling  into  the  state  uf  hlz  own  heart. 

"  The  bescented,  doll-faced,  dandified  jackanapes!" 
growled  Mr.  Barstone,  with  flashmg  eyes;  *'  with  his  six  hun- 
dred dollars  a  year,  and  his  curly  pate!  I  dare  say  he  thinks 
he  has  only  to  open  his  lanky  arms  for  Miss  Wayne  to  plump 
into  themi  The  girls  of  Milford  have  spoiled  that  fellow — 
always  sickeningly  conceited  about  his  nambv-pamby  beauty. 
^As  if  a  man  had  anything  to  do  with  beauty,  or  as  if  a  sensi- 
|ble  girl  like  Magdalen  Wayne  would  make  an  idiot  of  herseF. 
!or  a  pair  of  dark  eyes  and  a  straight  nose!" 

Mr.  Barstone,  with  his  hands  deep  in  his  pantaloons  pockets, 
tore  up  and  down  his  sanctum  like  a  caged  lion. 

He  had  just  seen  Miss  Wayne  go  by  the  window  with  the 
handsome  dry-goods  clerk,  talking  as  animatedly  as  though 
the  scheme  of  the  universe  held  but  their  two  selves.  | 

**  How  lovely  she  looked,  and  how  happy  she  seemed!" 
groaned  George,  in  despair;  "  and,  after  all,  though  she  may 
snub  mill-owners  with  sandy  hair  and  pug  noses,  who  knows 
what  eflect  this  noodle's  Grecian  profile  and  melancholy, 
dreamy  eyes — as  Fanny  calls  'em — may  have  upon  her? 
Hang  his  melancholy,  dreamy  eyes!  1  wish  he  was  ten 
fathoms  deep  in  the  Connecticut!  Girls  are  as  silly  as  geese; 
and,  though  Miss  Wayne  seems  sensible,  Tve  no  doubt  she's 
as  bad  as  the  worst  where  Grecian  noses  and  black  eyes  are 
concerned.  1  dare  say  she'll  fling  herself  away  on  this  dry- 
goods  ApoUd,  and  take  a  turn  at  love  in  a  cottage^  like  the 


42 


MAODALEK^S   VOW. 


H* 


silliest  driveler  among  them!  Love  in  a  cottage]^ two  back 
rooms  in  a  tenement  house,,  bread  without  butter,  and  weak 
tea  three  times  a  day,  patched  clothes,  and  half  a  dozen  dirty- 
faced  children.     Bah!" 

With  which  expression  of  disgust  Mr.  Barstone  flung  him- 
self into  his  office-chair,  and  scowled  vindictively  at  the  oppo- 
site wall. 

**  And  if  she  does,  what  difference  does  it  make  to  me?"  he 
thought.*  **  What  business  is  it  of  mine  if  Miss  Wayne 
chooses  to  marry  th*^  King  of  the  Cannibal  Islands?  George 
Barstone,  you  are  a  greater  fool  than  your  friends  take  you  to 
be,  and  you're  in  love  again, " 

Mr,  Barstone  emphasized  the  **  again,"  as  he  very  well 
might,  for  being  in  love  had  been  his  normal  state  ever  since 
he  had  left  off  roundabouts. 

In  New  York  he  fell  in  love  with  ballet  girls,  and  actresses, 
and  all  manner  of  objectioni«ble  young  women;  and  in  Mil- 
ford  he  had  succumbed  to  the  cbarms  of  at  least  a  dozen,  and 
paid  marked  attention  to  Miss  Ella  Gold  ham,,  the  greatest 
heiress  and  the  best-looking  girl  in  town.  His  suit  had  been 
smiled  upon,  the  course  of  true  iove  ran  as  smooth  as  a  mill-j 
dam— so  smoothly,  indeed,  that  George  Barstone  slipped  outj 
of  love  as  easily  as  he  had  slipped  in. 

Perhaps  Miss  Goldham  had  met  him,  like  Desdemona^ 
more  than  half-way.  Perhaps  the  grapes  were  too  ripe,  anc 
hung  too  near.  ': 

Mr.  Barstone  hadn't  proposed,  and  had  not  been  in  lo^ 
sinoe.     Sense  had  come  to  him,  he  thought,  with  his  sevej 
and-twentieth  year.     He  had  cut  his  wisdom  teeth  at  h 
and,  lo!  here  he  was  going  mad  because  his  aunt's  governc 
whom  he  had  not  known  over  two  months,  had  walked 
his  windows  with  a  good-looking  young  dry-goods  clerk. 

Mr.  Barstone  spent  a  miserable  and  unbusiness-like  day- 
smoking  endless  cigars  and  rumina^^iug  drearily  on  Mr.  Pranl 
Hamilton's  prospects  of  success. 

He  had  been  so  happy  during  the  past  two  months,  sliding 
unconsciously  into  the  abyss;  and  the  bright  face,  and  golden 
hair,  and  glorious  eyes  of  Magdalen  Wayne  had  so  lighted  up 
the  world  that  the  darkness  was  ten-fold  blacker  now. 

His  love  was  no  child's  play  this  time.  Tf  Miss  Wayne  be- 
came Mrs.  Frank  Hamilton,  or  Mrs.  Anybody-else,  George 
Barstone  gloomily  made  up  his  mind  that  life  held  no  other 
alternative  for  him  than  a  double  dose  of  laudanum,  or  a 
jump  off  the  bank  into  Willow  Lake,  where  it  was  deepest 

The   yK>ang  lawyer  walked  moodily  home  that  eyening 


4  - 


Magdalen's  vow. 


43 


^  *- 


'-? 


\' 


through  the  amher  mist  of  the  sunset,  with  the  darkest  shadow 
t>D  his  face  that  cheery  face  ever  wore. 

What  if  Frank  Hamilton  had  proposed  that  very  day,  and 
been  accepted? 

**  He  hasn't  known  her  half  as  long  as  1  have/'  relQeoted 
George,  **  and  1  daren't  do  it;  but  Hamilton  is  bold  enough 
for  anything.  If  she  has  said  yes,  let  her  go.  The  woman 
who  would  marry  that  well-dressed  idiot  isn't  worth  regret- 
ting. I  don't  want  a  wife  anyhow.  A  wife — humbug!  A 
wjfe's  a  nuisance!  I  shouldn't  know  what  to  do  with  one  if  I 
had  one." 

Mr.  Barstone,  reaching  home,  saw  the  garden-gate  swing 
open,  and  Fanny,  with  several  yards  of  rose-colored  ribbon 
streaming  behind  her,  flew  down  the  path. 

**  I've  such  news  for  you,  George!"  cried  the  young  lady, 
all  flushed  and  palpitating.  **  We're  going  to  have  a  party! 
Yes,  a  party  on  my  birthday,  and  that's  the  very  next  Thurs- 
day that  ever  is;  and  there's  to  be  music,  dancing,  and  a  sup- 
per, and  I'm  to  ask  whoever  1  please.  And,  oh,  George!  I've 
been  dying  for  you  to  come  'home  to  write  the  invitations. 
I'm  to  have  a  new  dress,  and  Aunt  Lydia's  set  of  pearls;  and, 
oh,  George!  won't  it  be  lovely?" 

Miss  Winters  paused^  her  face  as  radiant  as  the  sunset  sky. 

Mr.  Barstone  listened  stoically. 

**  Is  supper  ready?"  he  asked. 

•*  Yes,  ready  this  half  hour;  and  Magdalen's  in  there,  ena- 
broidering  me  a  handkerchief.  I  want^  her  to  help  me  write 
the  invitations,  but  she  said  you  were  the  most  suitable  per- 
son. Oh!"  Fanny  cried,  clasping  her  hands  around  his  arm, 
and  looking  up  at  him  with  big,  shining  eyes,  **  I  don't  know 
wiiat  to  do  witL  myself,  I  am  so  happy!" 

Mr.  Barstone  remained  rigidly  grim.  He  went  to  supper, 
and  found  Magdalen  seated  at  one  of  the  windows,  bending 
over  her  work. 

'    She  looked  up,  with  that  brilliant  smile  the  young  lawyer 
thought  the  most  beautiful  thing  on  earth. 

"  I've  been  telling  George  all  about  the  party,  Magdalen," 
exclaimed  Fanny,  as  they  sat  down  to  supper,  **  and  ht  a  go- 
ing to  write  out  the  invitations  directly  after  tea.  Isn't  it  too 
biS,  George,  Phil  can't  come  down.  What  will  you  wear, 
Magdalen — black?" 

'*  Black,  of  course — I  have  nothing  else." 

"  And  you  know  it  becomes  you,  you  sly  Magdalen. 
Blondes  always  look  their  best  in  black— don't  yon  think  so. 


3 


u 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


**  1  think/'  replied  George  Barstone,  with  grave  sincerity, 
**  Miss  "Wayne  looks  her  best  in  anything." 

**  Delightful!*'  cried  Fanny,  while  Magdalen  blushed  vivid- 
ly. **  J  didn't  think  it  was  in  you,  George.  1  should  like 
pink  myself;  but  I'm  afraid  pink  is  too  prononcee  for  my 
complexion  and  hair.  It's  red — 1  know  it  is — and  I  hate  red 
hair:  All  the  heroines  of  novels  have  golden  hair,  like  Magda- 
len, or  tar-black,  like  Ella  Goldham;  and  the  fair  ones  used 
to  be  good,  and  the  dark  ones  all  bad.  But  they've  reversed 
that  rule  since  *  Lady  Audley.' " 

Mr.  Barstone — still  under  a  cloud — consented  to  make  him- 
Belf  useful  after  tea,  and  write  out  Fanny's  invitations. 

After  alt^  poor,  imbecile  Frank  Hamilton  was  more  to  be 
pttied  than  blamed  for  falling  madly  in  love  with  this  starry- 
eyed  divinity  who  glorified  Golden  Willows  by  her  presence. 
It  was  not  in  human  nature  to  do  otherwise,  and  he  tried  to 
think  of  him  with  pitying  disdain,  and  write  down  the  list  of 
names  Fanny  dictated.  It  was  a  lengthy  list,  and  wound  up 
with  the  obnoxious  Apollo  himself. 

**  And  Frank  Hamilton,  Magdalen — handsome  Frank — we 
must  have  him,  of  course!" 

**  1  object  to  young  Hamilton!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Barstone, 
suddenly  turning  crusty,  **  1  don't  like  the  fellow!  A  con- 
ceited, empty-headed  noodle;  and  you  have  masculine  noodles 
enough  without  him.     Go  on. " 

"  Not  until  you  put  down  Frank,"  said  Fanny,  resolutely. 
**  You  may  just  as  well,  George,  for  1  shall  have  him  here  if 
I  have  to  go  to  the  store  and  invite  him  myself!  And  as  to 
his  being  a  conceited  noodle,  that's  all  your  hateful  jealousy, 
George  Barstone,  because  he's  a  great  deal  better  looking  than 
you  are!    Write  down  Frank." 

**  I'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort!"  returned  Mr.  Barstone, 
"violently  i-ed;  *'  and  if  he  comes  here,  I  shall  not!  1  tell  you, 
1  don't  like  him;  and  I  repeat  it,  he  is  a  noodle — ^good  for 
nofiiing  but  measuring  out  yards  of  tape  and  admiring  his 
pretty  face  in  the  glass!  Write  your  invitations  yourself, 
Miss  Winters,  if  you  insist  upon  having  people  I  despise!" 

With  which  unprecedented  burst  of  ill-temper,  Mr.  Bar- 
stone stalked  majestically  out  of  the  room,  slamming  the 
door  behind  him. 

Magdalen  stared  in  boundless  astonishment,  and  Fanny's 
eyes  were  like  two  midnight  moons. 

**  Good  gracious  me!"   ejaculated  Misa  Winters,  with  a 


«  )| 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


45 


\J' 


saw  George  turn  grumpy  in  my  life.     Bat  I  know  how  it  is," 
with  a  shower  of  mysterious  nods — **  I  know  all  about  it/' 

**  All  about  what?'*  inquired  Magdalen,  very  much  mysti- 
fied. **  I  thought  Mr.  Barstone  and  Mr.  Hamilton  were  very 
good  friends." 

**  And  so  they  always  hare  been,  and  so  they  always  would 
be,  only  for  you,  you  sly,  mischief-making  Magdalen!" 

**  Only  for  me?"  cried  Magdalen,  aghast. 
I    **  Good  gracious,   yes!"  exclaimed    Fanny,  testily.      **  Of 
course  it's  you;  any  one  can  see  it  with  half  an  eye.     Frank'g 
in  love  with  you,  and  George  is  jealous  as  a  Turk." 
-*'  Fanny!  Fanny!  what  are  yoa  saying?" 

•*  The  truth,  Miss  Wayne.  JJon't  you  suppose  I  have  eyes 
in  my  head?  And  that's  why  poor  Frank  is  a  conceited 
noodle,  and  can't  come  to  the  party.  He  can't,  1  suppose^  if 
George  keeps  grumpy;  and  it's  a  thousand  pities,  for  he's  the 
nicest  fellow  1  know — except  Phil — and  so  handsome  that  it's 
a  pleasure  to  look  at  him. " 

Miss  Wayne  bent  suddenly  over  her  work,  and  her  cheeks 
were  the  color  of  Fanny's  streamers,  and  her  heart  all  in  a 
flutter  of  tremulous  bliss.     Whv,  she  best  knew. 

**  So  we  must  leave  poor,  dear  Frank  out,"  pursued  Fanny, 
regretfully,  **  and  disappoint  heaps  of  girls.  And  then, 
there's  the  old  folks — how  are  we  to  amuse  them?" 

**  Cards,"  suggested  Magdalen. 

**  Cards?"  repeated  Fanny.  *'  It  would  be  as  much  as  my 
life's  worth  to  mention  the  word  to  Aunt  Lydia — to  George, 
either,  for  that  matter.  And  tijereby  hangs  a  tale.  It's  all 
George's  doing;  a  bwned  child  dreads  the  fire." 

Magdalen  dropped  her  work  and  looked  at  her. 

"  You  won't  speak  of  it  again,  I  know,"  pursued  Fanny, 
delighted  to  have  a  secret  to  tell,  *'  because  Aunt  Lydia 
wouldn't  like  it;  but  George  wasn't  always  the  model  he  is 
now.  When  he  was  in  New  York,  two  or  three  years  ago,  ho 
got  into  dreadful  trouble  of  some  kind.  I  don't  know  what 
it  was;  but  gambling  had  something  to  do  with  it,  and  Aunt 
Lydia  was  in  terrible  distress,  and  had  ever  so  much  money 
to  pay.  George  came  home  awfully  ashamed  of  himself  and 
penitent,  and  ever  since  cards  have  been  utterly  abolished.'* 

Magdalen  listened  to  this  little  narrative  with  an  interest 
Fanny  never  dreamed  of.  Three  years  ago  George  Barstone 
had  been  in  New  York,  and  he  had  been  addicted  to  gam- 
bling! What  if  he  had  known  Maurice  Langley?  What  if  he 
were  Maurice  Langley  himself? 

Her  face  flushed  hotly  at  the  thought.    She  had  brooded 


46 


MAGDALEN'S   VOW, 


on  the  possibility  of  finding  this  man  in  strange  plaoes^  and 
by  strange  ways,  so  long  that  no  idea,  however  preposterous, 
coald  seem  prepos^arous  to  her.  **  Tall  and  handsome!'' 
George  Barstone  was  both.  But  the  next  instant  she  dis- 
carded the  wild  idea.  His  frank,  handsome  face  arose  before 
her— ffenial  and  honest  —  the  face  of  a  man  who  might 
thoughtlessly  fall  into  error,  never  the  face  of  a  deliberate 
villain.  She  could  see  him  from  the  window,  walking  up  and 
down  in  the  silvery  summer  gloaming,  smoking  his  cigar  un- 
der the  trees,  and  looking  up  at  the  red,  rising  moon. 

**No,  no,  no!''  thought  Magdalen,  **  George  Barstone 
never  could  be  a  cold-blooded  traitor  and  betrayer.  I  am  a 
wretch  to  harbor  such  a  thought  for  a  moment.  But  he  may 
have  known  Maurice  Langley.     If  1  only  dared  rp.l:  him!" 

Fanny's  tongue  was  running  on  all  the  while,  and  Magda- 
len had  to  dismiss  the  subject,  and  attend  to  her. 

'*  1  ^m  not  going  to  invite  poor  Frank,  you  cantankerous 
old  George,"  Fanny  said  to  her  cousin,  when  he  came  in  pres- 
ently, **  so  you  needn't  wear  that  sulky  face  any  longer.  I 
am  sure  you  and  he  used  to  be  good  enough  friends,  but 
you're  quite  an  altered  person  lately.  He's  a  great  deal  more 
entertaining  than  you  are,  and  I  don't  half  expect  to  enjoy 
myself  without  him,  and  no  more  does  Magdalen;  but  for  all 
that  he's  not  coming,  so  please  stop  scowling,  Mr.  Barstone, 
and  try  and  make  yourself  agreeable  if  you  can. " 

Mr.  Barstone's  reply  to  this  breathless  reproach  was  a  scowl 
of  even  deeper  malignity,  to  the  infinite  amusement  of  wicked 
Fanny. 

"I've  been  asking  Magdalen,"  pursued  that  young  lady, 
bent  on  tormenting  him,  *'  how  we  are  going  to  amuse  the 
elders,  and  she  suggested  cards.  Would  you  mind  fetching  a 
pack  home  from  Milford  to-morrow,  George." 

Magdalen  looked  up  quickly  and  earnestly,  and  saw  a  re- 
markable change  pass  over  the  young  man's  face  at  the  sim- 
ple words,  and  his  blue  eyes  darkened  and  grew  stern  as  they 
fixed  themselves  on  Fanny's  face. 

**  I  should  mind  it,  Miss  Winters,"  he  said,  **  and  you  know 
that  perfectly  well.  Please  be  a  little  more  careful  in  your 
requests,  or  there  will  be  neither  card-playing  nor  party  that 
nigh  t. " 

With  which  short,  sharp,  and  decisive  speech,  Mr.  Barstone 
strode  from  the  room,  and  appeared  no  more  that  evening. 

The  eventful  day  came,  and  Fanny,  in  a  fever  of  excite- 
ment, robed  herself  in  spotless  white,  with  Aunt  Lydia's 
pearls  gleaming  in  milky  luster  on  her  neck^  and  her  pink 


r 


) 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


47 


oomplexion  deeper  pink  than  ever.  Calm  and  queenly  be^ 
Bide  her,  in  black  eilk  and  laoe,  and  jet  ornaments,  MIm 
Wayne  stood,  plain  and  simple  in  dress,  and  uplifted  and 
beautiful  as  a  youn^  queen. 

Mr.  Frank  Hamilton,  the  handsome^  was  not  there,  and 
George  Barstone  should  have  been  at  peace;  but,  alas!  he  was 
not — for  if  the  best-looking  man  in  Milford  had  been  excluded 
from  that  festive  throng  on  Miss  Wayne's  account,  the  richest 
man  in  Milford  was  there,  and  obnoxiously  attentive. 

Mr.  Sam  Goldham,  short  of  rtature,  plain  of  face,  dull  of 
brain,  but  with  a  million  dollars  at  his  command,  was  her 
most  devoted  admirer.  He  hung  over  the  piano  when  she 
played  and  sung;  he  was  her  partner  when  she  danced;  he 
persistently  sat  oeside  her  when  she  rested.  George  Bar- 
stone,  hovering  aloof,  like  your  madly  jealous  lovers,  set  his 
teeth  in  a  paroxysm  of  fury,  and  longed  to  take  Mr.  Sam  Gold- 
ham  by  tne  scruff  of  the  neck  and  kick  him  incontinently 
out-of-doors.  One  or  two  attempts  he  made  to  join  the 
golden-haired  divinity;  but,  monopolized  by  the  wealthy  man- 
ufacturer, the  attempts  were  futile.  The  millionaire  had  her, 
and  meant  to  keep  her.  Desperate  cases  require  desperate 
remedies.  Mr.  Barstone  took  a  desperate  and  sudden  resolve 
there  and  then. 

**  rU  propose  to  her  to-morrow,"  thought  the  young  law- 
yer, grinding  his  teeth  and  glaring  at  the  rich  man,  **  2  that 
inconceivably^  idiot,  Sam  Goldham,  doesn't  do  it  to-night'^" 


» 


CHAPTER  VIll. 

MR.    BARSTONE  PROPOSES. 

"  Man  proposes,  but  God  disposes!'^  saith  the  proverb. 
George  Barstone  laid  his  head  on  his  pillow,  at  three  o'clock 
that  morning,  with  the  invincibb  resolution  of  asking  the 
bright-haired  governess  to  be  his  wife  before  the  day  ended, 
and  fell  asleep  under  the  soothing  influence  of  that  determi- 
nation. 

But  destiny  had  decreed  otherwise.  Awaking,  late  in  the 
iorenoon,  from  a  dream  of  his  amber-tressed  idol,  he  beheld 
Bill,  the  boy,  standing  by  his  bedside,  like  an  ugly  little 
guardian  angel. 

**  A  letter,  Mr.  George — jest  come,  sir;  man  brought  it 
from  the  telegraph  office  in  town,  and  you're  to  sign  yow 
name. " 

George  took  it^  and  read  its  brief  contents  with  a  veij 


./JMfc'jarti'J******- 


'■».""?■ 


48 


MAGDALEN  8    VOW. 


M  . 


i-v-- 


,{ 


blank  face.     It  was  from  New  York,  from  the  elderly  pliy- 
aioian  with  whom  his  cousin  Philip  was  connected. 

**  Come  here,  if  you  can.  P.'s  met  with  an  accident— 
ierious,  but  not  fatal. 

**  RlOHAIiD  MaSTERSON." 

George  Barstone  was  very  earnestly  attached  to  his  cousin. 
They  had  grown  up  together  as  boys;  they  had  run  their  col- 
lerjc  course  side  by  side,  and  of  late  years  separation  had  ratlier 
strengthened  then  weakened  their  fraternal  attachment.  In 
the  first  shock  and  consternation  of  the  news,  the  lawyer,  the 
lover,  absolutely  forgot  his  lady-love. 

**  An  accident  I"  George  thought,  staring  blankly  at  the 
telegram.  **  Serious,  but  not  fatal!  Good  heavens!  what 
oan  have  happened  to  him?  I'll  run  up  to  New  York  this 
rery  day.*' 

He  sprung  out  of  bed  at  once,  and  rapidly  began  to  dress. 

**  I  must  tell  Aunt  Lydia,  of  course.  She  isn't  up  yet, 
and  it  seems  a  pity  to  awake  her,  after  last  night;  but  it  can't 
be  helped.  Poor  Phil!  he  must  have  requested  Masterson  to 
telegraph  for  me;  the  old  bear  never  would  do  it  of  himself. 
He  always  did  want  me,  whenever  he  got  into  a  scrape,  I  re- 
member." 

George,  having  completed  his  toilet,  sought  his  aunt's 
room. 

She  was  awake,  though  not  up,  when  he  rapped,  and  an- 
swered at  once: 

*'  Is  it  you,  George?    Come  right  in.     What  is  it?" 

George  explained. 

Miss  Barstone  was  excessively  shocked  and"  startled.  She 
was  as  fond  of  her  two  nephews  as  a  widowed  mother  might 
be  of  her  two  sons. 

*'  Poor  Phil,  poor,  dear  boy!  Oh,  George,  if  it  should  be 
dangerous!" 

**  The  telegram  says  not,  aunt." 

**  You  must  go  to  New  York  at  once,  George.  My  poor 
Phil!  I  shall  have  no  peace  until  I  hear  from  you.  Are  you 
in  time  for  the  noon  train?" 

George  looked  at  his  watch. 

**  It  will  pass  through  Mil  ford  in  an  hour  and  a  half — time 
enough,  and  to  spare.  I'll  have  a  mouthful  of  breakfast,  and 
be  i^  immediately. " 

But  Mr.  Barstone,  saying  this,  lingered  strangely.  An 
after-thought  seemed  to  strike  him^  and  he  stood,  looping  and 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


49 


\ 


unlooping  nervously  his  watch-chain,  and  staring  with  a  dis- 
turbed face  at  the  opposite  wall. 

Miss  Barstone  watched  him  intently. 

**  Well,  George?*'  she  said. 

George  grew  very  red,  turned  abruptly,  and  began  pacing 
up  and  down. 

**  Well,  George?"  this  time  with  a  faint,  conscious  smile.     , 

**  Aunt,"  broke  out  Mr.  Barstone,  '*  there's  something  I 
should  like  to  spoak  to  you  about  before  I  leave  home." 

*'  So  I  perceive.     What  is  it?" 

George,  redder  than  'ever,  rumpled  up  his  fair  hair,  and 
stared  very  hard  at  vacancy. 

**  Well,  George?     I'm  waiting." 

George  stopped  his  walk  as  abruptly  as  he  had  commenced 
it,  and  turned  full  upon  his  relative. 

"  Aunt,"  he  burst  out,  impetuously,  **  I've  fallen  in  love." 

**  Indeed!"  very  placidly.  *'  ^Nothing  new  in  that,  George. 
Who  is  the  lady?" 

"Aunt  Lydia,"  said  Mr.  Barstone,  firmly,  **  this  is  some- 
thing entirely  different  from  the  past.  I'm  aware  how  often 
and  how  egregiously  I've  made  a  donkey  of  myself;  but  this 
time  I'm  in  earnest.  1  love  her  with  my  whole  heart,  and  if 
she  refuses  me,  I  don't  care  whether  I  live  or  die!" 

**  My  poor,  dear  boy!     And  who  is  she?" 

**  She  is  Miss  Wayne." 

**  Fanny's  governess?  Ah,  George,  it  is  not  the  first  time 
you  have  fallen  in  love  with  Fanny's  governess." 

*'  It  shall  be  the  last  time,  aunt.  The  happiness  of  my 
whole  life  is  involved  in  this.  I  meant  to  ask  her  this  very 
day.  Aunt  Lydia,  you  can  not  object  to  Magdalen?" 
-  **  I  esteem  Miss  Wayne  very  highly,  George.  She  is  an  ex- 
cellent governess — a  very  handsome  and  high-bred  young  lady; 
but,  with  all  that,  I  should  like  to  know  something  more  of 
the  antecedents  of  my  dear  boy's  future  wife  than  1  do  of 
hers." 

Mr.  Barstone's  anxious  face  turned  radiant. 

"  Then  you  don't  object,  aunt?" 

**  To  Miss  Magdalen  Wayne  personally — no.     I  dare  say  I 
should  prefer  for  you  a  wealthier  bride.     I  am  only  mortal  in 
that  respect.     But,  after  all,  a  fortune  is  not  the  chief  con- 
[fiideration.     You  have  not  taken  me  in  the  least  by  surprise, 
[George.    1  have  foreseen  all  this  for  some  time.    If  Magdalen 
loves  you,  and  if  there  is  no  other  drawback  than  her  pov- 
erty, I  shall  raise  no  objection.     I  like  her  very  much — very 
mneh  indeed." 


50 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


If'-' 


ii 


t( 


m. 


**  Then/*  cried  George,  with  a  beaming  face,  **  Pll  ask  her 
the  moment  1  return  from  New  fork,  and  after  that,  you 
know,  you  can  question  and  cross-question  her  about  her  an- 
tecedents, and  nnd  out  who  her  grandfather  and  great-grand- 
father were,  and  come  at  the  history  of  the  whole  Wayne 
race.  SheMl  come  forth  triumphantly  from  the  ordeal, 
never  fear.  And,  auntie,  just  own  up— isn't  she  the  loveliest 
creature  the  sun  shines  on?"  .. 

Magdalen  is  very,  very  pretty." 

And  so  gentle,  and  sweet-tempered,  and  stately,  and 
thorough-bred.  Aunt,"  said  Mr.  Barstone,  iu  a  sudden  gush 
of  despondency,  as  all  Miss  Wayne's  manifold  perfections 
burst  upon  him,  *'  1  don't  believe  she'll  have  me." 

**  She  might  very  easily  have  worse,  George.     I  like  to  see 

Joung  men  modest;  but  1  wouldn't  despair,  if  I  were  you. 
[eanwhile,  '  time  is  on  the  wing;'  the  train  will  soon  pass, 
and  here  you  are. " 

**  By  Jovel  yes,"  cried  George,  bolting  precipitately  out  of 
the  room.  **  Good-bye,  aunt  Here  I  linger,  and  poor  Phil 
at  death's  door,  for  all  1  know.  What  a  selfish  brute  I  am^ 
to  be  sure!" 

The  young  lawyer  crammed  the  few  necessaries  requisite 
into  his  traveling-bag,  swallowed  a  hasty  cup  of  coffee,  and 
set  off. 

As  he  took  his  seat  in  the  buggy,  the  fair  face  of  Magdalen 
Wayne  shone  on  him  from  an  upper  window.  His  heart 
gave  a  great  plunge  as  he  waved  his  hand  to  the  bright  ap- 
parition. 

**  Good-bye,  Miss  Wayne.  I'm  off  to  New  York.  Take 
care  of  yourself  till  1  come  back." 

Miss  Wayne  smiled  and  nodded;  then  the  pony  quickly 
trotted  George  Barstone  out  of  sight. 

The  young  lawyer  reached  New  York  in  due  time,  and 
found  his  cousin  by  no  means  so  alarmingly  ill  as  he  had 
fancied.  He  was  lying  on  a  bed  in  a  darkened  chamber,  look- 
ing uncommonly  gaunt  and  hollow-eyed,  it  is  true,  but  quite 
able  to  devour  basins  of  broth  and  beef-tea,  and  talk  to  his 
a  jsin  by  the  hour. 

"Why,  Phil,  old  fellow  I'*  George  cried,  "you're  not  half 
so  bad  as  I  thought  you  were."' 

Mr.  Philip  Barstone  flounoed  over  the  bed-clothes  with  aj 
dismal  groan.  He  was  one  of  those  big,  strong  men  who  suc-j 
cumb,  like  the  fragile  blossoms  they  are,  to  the  first  touch  on 
illness;  and  when  he  lay  down  and  pulled  the  sheets  over 


»-. 


MWB 


Magdalen's  vow. 


01 


Vi, 


him,  he  wanted  all  his  friends  and  relativos  to  stand  howling 
around  his  bed  in  a  dreary  chorus  of  sympathy. 

•*  It's  worse  than  you  think  for,  George/*  said  the  invalid, 
forlornly;  **  and  I've  been  cooped  up  in  this  old  hole,  with  old 
Masterson  feeling  my  pulse,  and  a  nurse,  ugly  enough  to  set 
up  in  a  corn-field,  pouring  filthy  slops  down  my  throat,  until 
1  ve  had  serious  thoughts  of  getting  up  and  blowing  my  brains 
out  to  escape  them.  That's  why  I  made  Masterson  telegraph 
for  you,  old  boy.  1  should  have  gone  melancholy  mad  if 
some  one  hadn't  come.  I  tell  you,  George,  it's  rough  on  us 
bach(  ors,  when  we  come  to  be  laid  up  and  left  to  the  mercies 
of  hired  nurses.  If  the  nurses  were  only  young  and  pretty, 
you  know,  a  fellow  might  stand  it;  but  they  seem  to  be 
specially  selected  on  account  of  their  age  and  ugliness.  If  I 
ever  get  out  of  this  confounded  mess,  Til  turn  over  a  new 
leaf,  resign  brandy  and  soda,  fast  horses  and  expensive  cigars, 
become  virtuous  and  happy,  and  get  married.  How  are  they 
all  at  Golden  Willows?'^ 

**  As  usual,"  George  answered,  rather  absently,  his 
thoughts  with  that  wonderful  creature  with  the  starry-e^es 
and  tinseled  hair,  who  had  come  to  glorify  his  humdrum  life. 

**  Does  Aunt  Lydia  get  about  much?"  pursued  Phil;  **  but 
of  course  she  doesn't. ' 

**  No;  she  has  not  been  out  of  her  room  since  your  depart- 
ure.   By  fche  way,  Fanny's  got  a  new  governess,  you  know." 

Despite  the  studiously  careless  **  by  the  way,  '  the  latter 
clause  sounded  somewhat  inapposite. 

**  Has  she?  I  didn't  know.  Has  she  fallen  in  love  with 
you,  or  have  you  fallen  in  love  with  her — which?  Fanny's 
governesses  have  always  been  divided  into  those  two  classes, 
since  she  had  a  governess — loved  and  lovee.  Ah,  I  see!"  said 
Philip,  pointing  one  lean  forefinger  at  poor  George's  blushes; 
"  you've  been  and  made  an  idiot  of  yourself  for  the  fiftieth 
time!  It's  astonishing  F^an  hasn't  written  me  a  full,  true, 
'and  particular  account  long  before  this.     Who  is  she?" 

*'Her  name  is  Wayne — Miss  Magdalen  Wayne — if  you 
:  uean  Fanny's  governess. ' ' 

**  Whom  else  should  I  mean?  Fanny's  governess,  and  the 
idol  of  your  young  afifections.  How  fondly  the  fellow  dT^ells 
on  her  name!  Miss — Magdalen— Wayne!  Iff  a  pretty 
name,  too.     Is  she — " 

**  Beantlful!"  exclaimed  George,  rapturously.  **  The  love- 
liest girl  you  ever  saw!" 

**  I  don't  believe  it.  Miss  Fletcher  had  sandy  hair  and 
freckles,  and  yog  called  her  lovely.    I  don't  believe  it.    You 


1 


62 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


have  no  more  eye  for  beauty,  George  Barstone,  thftn  an  old 
he-eoat.     What's  her  style — the  light  or  the  dark?" 

**  Alisa  Wayne  is  fair,"  replied  George,  rather  subdued  by 
the  sick  man's  cynicism.  "  Blue-gray  eyes— lovely  eyes,  Phil 
—and  golden  hair — real  golden  hair.  She  isn't  like  Miss 
Fletcher  in  the  least.  She's  a  lady  to  her  finger-tips.  You 
ought  to  hear  her  play  and  sing.  Even  you,  cold-blooded 
reptile  that  you  are,  would  knock  under  in  ten  minutes. '' 
»    **  And  where  did  you  pick  up  this  peerless  paragon?" 

**  None  of  your  sneers,  Phil!  Here  in  New  T  3rk;  and  very 
Borry  -he  people  she  was  with  were  to  lose  her.  Don't  think 
this  is  like  my  old  scrapes.  It's  another  afifarir  altogether, 
and  I  never  was  half  so  serious  about  anything  in  the  whole 
course  of  my  life." 

"  Indeed!  And  when  am  1  to  congratulate  you?  Perhaps 
you  have  ftlready  proposed?"  >" 

**  I  should  have,  only  for  you.  I'll  ask  her  to  marry  m» 
before  I'm  three  hours  back  to  Golden  Willows." 

*'  By  Jove!  he  does  mean  business!"  cried  Philip  Barstone. 

"  He  knows  his  own  mind  for  onco. '  And  the  wedding  will 
take  place  the  week  after,  Vm  certain,  for  the  irrepressible 
George  won't  be  able  to  wait." 

**  1  shouldn't  wait  long,  if  it  depended  on  me,  that's  cer- 
tain; but  Miss  Wayne  may  say  No."  • 

**  Fanny's  governess!  My  dear  boy,  D^odesty's  a  lovely 
virtue  in  youth — loveiy  as  rare;  but  don't  you  think  you're 
rayther  overdoing  it?  Miss  Wayne  say  No?  I'm  rather  short 
of  funds,  George,  and  1  want  my  purse  replenished;  so  I'll 
lay  you  ten  to  one  she  snaps  at  you  like  a  cat  at  a  mouse." 

George  Barstone  got  up  from  his  cousin's  bedside  with  an 
impatient  frown. 

**  You  don't  know  Miss  Wayne,  Phil,"  he  said,  walking  up 
and  down.  **  1  might  lose  my  temper,  only  for  that,  lou 
^ou't  know  her.  She  isn't  like  Miss  Fletcher,  and  she  isn't 
like  any  governess  we  ever  had  at  Golden  Willows.  If  I  don't 
marry^her — and  mind,  such  an  event  is  more  than  doubtful, 
lor  the  best  men  in  Milford  are  after  her — life  won't  bo  worth 
a  brass  button!  I  spoke  to  Aunt  Lydia  before  I  left,  and  I 
shall  propose  to  Miss  Wayne  directly  when  1  get  back." 

"Just  as  you  please,  old  fellow,"  said  Phiiip.  **  If  it  be 
serious,  you  have  my  best  wishes,  of  course.  Go  in  and  win, 
dear  boy,  and  my  blessings  be  upon  your  virtuous  endeavors!'" 

George  remained  two  days  in  New  York,  at  the  urgent 
Bolicitation  of  his  cousin. 

"It's  BO  horribly  lonely  here!"  Mr.  Philip  Barstone srom- 


l 


P 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


53 


Wed.  **  If  you  had  any  bowels  of  compassion,  you  wouldn't 
be  in  such  a  deuced  hurry  fco  desert  a  fellow  to  his  fate  and 
his  beef-tea.  But  i  see  how  it  is.  That  gray-eyed,  golden- 
haired  governess  has  bewitched  you;  and  a  chap  like  you  in 
Jove  is  company  for  neither  man  nor  beast.  *'  <« 

**  I  dare  say  I  am  rather  restless,  Phil,"  George  said, 
apologetically.  '*  I  promised  Aunt  Lydia  I  would  let  her 
know  how  you  were  as  soon  as  possible,  and  1  know  she'll  be 
anxious." 

**  You  couldn't  write  and  tell  her,  I  suppose?"  Philip  said, 
rather  sulkily.  **  However,  go,  and  may  the  gods  that  watch 
over  fools  and  lovers  smile  propitiously  upon  you!  Go  home. 
My  unlovely  old  nurse  and  grumpy  Masterson  are  better  and 
livelier  companions  than  you,  sitting  yonder  staring  at  the 
wall,  and  sighing  like  a  furnace..   Go;  the  sooner  the  better." 

George  Barstoue,  nothing  loath,  departed,  and  reached  Mil- 
ford  as  rapidly  as  the  "  resonant  steam  eagle  "  could  convey 
him.  The  air  of  the  sultry  afternoon  was  opaque  with  amber 
mist,  through  which  Mr.  Barstone  drove  lik^  the  wind. 

**  1  wonder  if  1  shall  find  her  at  home?  I  wonder  if  I  will 
get  a  chance  to  speak  to  her  this  evening?  Good  heavens!  if 
that  rich,  addle-pated  idiot,  Goldham,  L:i8  proposed  before 
me,  and  been  accepted!"  ^ 

Mr.  Barstone  set  his  teeth  at  the  maddening  supposition, 
and  lashed  Sam,  the  pony,  into  a  furious  gallop.  He  fiung 
the  reins  to  Bill,  when  h(^  reached  Golden  Willows,  and  en- 
tered the  house.  Ominous  stillness  reigned.  The  rooms  be- 
low were  (^serted,  the  piano  closed.  No  one  was  visible. 
George  rang  tlie  bell,  and  the  houae-maid,  dipping  and  smil- 
ing, appeared. 

**  Where's  Miss  Winters?    Where's  Miss  Wayne?"  said  the  ^ 
young  man,  with  startling  abruptness. 

^  **  Miss  Winters  and  Misa  Wayne  have  gone  'jo  a  picnic,  sir," 
;responded  the  smiling  damsel. 

**.  Gone  to  a  picnic?    Where?    Who  with?" 

Excitement  unsettled  Mr.  Barstone's  grammar. 

**  Mr.  Hamilton  and  Mr.  Goldham  took  'em,  sir,"  said  the 
smiling  one,  unconscious  of  the  dagger  she  was  plunging  in 
her  master's  breast.  "  The  picnic's  at  Blueberry  Bank,  and 
they've  been  gone  since  early  morning." 

George  Barstone  glared  vindictively  at  her,  and  then 
■talked,  in  silent  majesty,  out  of  the  room  and  upstairs.  His 
worst  fears  were  realized.  Sam  Goldham,  the  odious,  had 
lierj  and  nothing  remained  for  him  but  a  doable  dose  of  prus- 


54 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


I V 


'..  ■ 


8io  acid!  He  scowled  blackly  at  his  own  image  in  the  dress- 
ing-glasS;  and ''savagely  twitched  his  neck-tie  straight. 

"  1  don't  set  up  for  a  beauty!"  George  muttered,  bitterly; 
**  but  1*11  be  hanged  if  I'm  not  a  better-looking  fellow  than 
that  buii-necked,  blear-eyed,  driveling  dotard,  Sam  Gold  ham  I 
If  she^  accepts  him,  she  is  worthy  of  nothing  but  my  deepest 
contempt.  I'll  go  to  this  confounded  picnic.  I'll  see  for 
myself;  and,  if  my  fears  prove  true,  I'll  send  women  and 
matrimony  to  the  deuce  for  the  rest  of  my  natural  life!" 

He  could  not  wait  to  see  his  aunt.  He  set  off  at  once,  and 
reached  the  picnic  grounds  as  the  sun  was  setting  in  a  glory  of 
golden  light.  And  through  the  golden  glow,  radiant  as  a 
vision,  he  saw  Magdalen  Wayne  coming  toward  him,  side  by 
side  with  the  odious  Goldharn.  But  George's  heart  need  not 
have  sunk  straight  into  his  boo*;s,  for  Mr.  Goldham's  face  was 
by  no  means  lighted  up  with  the  rapture  of  an  accepted  lover, 
and  Miss  Wayne  looked^  altogether  weary  and  listless. 

"Halloo,  Barstone!"  cried  Mr.  Goldham. 

And  there  Mr.  Goldham  paused,  aghast,  at  the  expression 
Mr.  Barstone's  countenance  wore. 

Miss  Wayne's  weary  face  brightened  suddenly.  She  held 
out  her  hand,  with  a  blush  and  a  smile  that  made  the  young 
man  giddy  wfth  new-born  hope. 

**  Such  an  unexpected  pleasure,  Mr.  Barstone!  We  did  not 
ezpeot  you  for  a  week.     Fanny  will  be  so  pleased!" 

Fanny!  What  did  Mr.  Barstone  care  for  Fanny?  In  one 
instant  his  face  was  radiant. 

**  And  your  cousin,"  Miss  Wayne  went  on,  dropping  a  lit- 
tle before  that  electric  glow.     **  I  hope  you  left  him  better?" 

**  No — yes.  That  is.  Miss  Wayne,  they're  going  to  dance. 
^May  I  have  the  honor?"  cried  George,  incoherently. 

But  Miss  Wayne  was  engaged  to  Mr.  Goldham,  and  after 
that  they  were  to  go  home.  But  the  bright  glance  with  which 
ishe  told  him  almost  consoled  Mr.  Barstone  for  the  disappoint- 
tment. 

**  I  knew  she  couldn't  care  for  tha^  donkey!"  thought  Mr. 
Barstone,  moving  ofE  in  search  of  Fanny.  **  And  how  beau- 
tif ally  she  blushed  at  sight  of  me.  I  was  a  fool  and  a  mad*' 
man  to  doubt  her  for  a  moment,  or  fancy  she  would  sell  her- 
self to  Sam  Goldham  for  his  million  dollars." 

**  Good  gracious,  George!"  Miss  Winters  shrilly  cried,  as  he 
oame  up.    **  You  have  given  me  quite  a  turn!    How's  Phil?" 

**  A  little  off  his  feed,"  answered  George;  **  but  as  well  as 
oan  be  expected.  Don't  worry  about  him,  Fanny.  He  isn't 
worrying  about  you. " 


n 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


55 


In  the  luminous  dusk  of  the  summer  ovening  the  picnickers 
went  home — George,  as  he  came,  by  himself;  Miss  Wayne  still 
with  Mr.  Goldham.  Golden  Willows  was  the  first  house  they 
reached,  and  there  they  alighted  to  partake  of  tea.  The 
lamps  were  lighted  in  the  pleasant  parlors,  and  a  tempting 
supper  laid  out  under  their  sparkling  lights. 

**  Oh,  hang  it!"  thought  George,  eying  Mr.  Goldham  in 
disgust,  **  will  he  never  let  her  go?  The  egregious  ninny  will 
stick  to  Miss  Wayne  like  a  leech,  1  suppose,  until  midnight.'* 

But  for  once  the  Fates  smiled  on  George.  A  servant 
handed  him  a  letter  as  he  stood  glowering  in  the  door-way. 

**  For  Miss  Wayne,  sir,  and  1  can't  get  through  to  give  it 
to  her." 

George  glanced  at  the  letter. 

**  From  that  old  nurse  in  New  Hampshire,"  he  thought. 
"  It  will  get  her  away  from  Goldham." 

He  made  his  way  to  where  she  sat. 
-  **  Will  you  step  out  into  the  hall -a  moment,  Miss  Wayne? 
you  are  wanted.     Mr.  Goldham  will  excuie  you.'" 

She  rose  at  once  and  followed  him  out.  He  gave  her  the 
letter. 

"From  nurse  Rachel!"  she  exclaimed.  **  I  am  so  glad  I 
Thanks,  Mr.  Barstone,  for  my  delivery. " 

She  ran  out,  laughing,  in^o  the  silvery  twilight  He  saw 
her  take  the  path  leading  to  the  walk,  and  disappear.  Half 
an  hour  passed.  George  walked  under  the  trees,  smoking  and 
waiting;  but  Magdalen  did  not  reappear.  Another  quarter  of 
an  hour;  then  he  Hung  away  his  cigar,  and  struck  resolutely 
down  the  Willow  Walk. 

Magdalen  sat  on  the  bank,  her  hands  folded,  looking  at  the 
solemn,  shining  water.  Her  lace  was  very  pale  in  the  silvery 
light. 

**  You  are  looking  whiter  and  more  mournful  than  a  spirit. 
Miss  Wayne,"  he  said,  gently.     **  No  bad  news,  I  trust?" 

Magdalen  looked  up. 

"  No,"  she  said.  "  They  are  all  well  at  home.  It  is  not 
that.     They  have  sent  for  me,  1  suppose?" 

She  was  rising  to  go;  but  he  made  a  blind,  sudden  motion 
to  detain  her. 

•*  Magdalen — Miss  Wayne— don't  go!  I  want  you  to  stay, 
I  want  you  to  listen  to  me. " 

One  glance  up  in  his  agitated  face,  and  she  knew,  before 
he  had  uttered  another  woid,  what  was  coming.  She  recoiled 
a  paoe — then  stood  still. 

What   George  Barstone  said^  Heaven  knows! — he  neyef 


51) 


MAGDALEN  S    VOW. 


V. 


kne^  himself.  Brokenly,  incoherently,  he  told  the  story  he 
.  had  come  to  tell — the  story  that  all  the  eloquence  of  a  Cieero 
<nust  resolve  into  three  poor  words: 

"Hove  you!" 

She  shrunk  away  and  covered  her  face  with  both  hands, 
quick  thrills  of  rapture  filling  her  heart,  and  telling  her  that 
me  loved  him,  too.  At  his  passionate  pleading,  she  looked 
up. 

'*  Don't— don't!"  she  said,  brokenly—"  pray,  don't!  Oh, 
Mr.  Barstone!" 

**  Don't  say  no,  Magdalen — for  God's  sake,  don't  say  no! 
You  don't  know  how  1  love  you!    Don't  say  no!" 

She  had  grown  marble-white  and  cold.  She  drew  further 
away,  and  put  out  her  hands  to  keep  him  off. 

*'  1  can  not  say  either  yes  or  no  to-night,  Mr.  Barstone. 
Give  me  time  to  think.  Wait  until  to-morrow,  and  you  shall 
have  your  answer." 

She  was  gone  with  the  words  on  her  lips;  and  George  Bar- 
stone,  dizzy  and  blind  with  emotion,  stood  alono  under  the 
shining  stars. 


/ 


i 


CHAPTEK  IX. 

TOLD   IN  THE  TWILIGHT. 

Mr.  Barstone,  in  his  professional  capacity,  no  doubt  had 
some  knowledge  of  the  manner  condemned  men  passed  the 
night  before  their  execution,  but  he  had  never  known  from  ex- 
perience before. 

Deliriously  hopeful,  dismally  despairing,  walking  up  and 
down,  tossing  about  in  bed,  morning  mercifully  came  at  last 

Miss  Wayne  and  Mr.  Barstone  met  at  breakfast;  and  if  she 
looked  pale,  he  looked  haggard.  Miss  Winters  had  the  talk 
all  to  herself,  and,  to  do  her  justice,  there  was  very  little  flag- 
ging in  the  monologue. 

**  Every  one  said  they  never  enjoyed  themselves  so  much,** 
chattered  the  young  girl;  **  and  everything  passed  off  lovely. 
1  waltzed  all  day;  and  Frank  Hamilton —  Oh,  George!  if  you 
could  only  waltz  like  Frank  Hamilton!  I  don't  know  any 
higher  bliss  on  this  earth  than  waltzing  with  him.  That's  three 
*  waltziugs'  close  together,  Magdalen;  but  I  suppose  it's  no 
matter  out  of  study  hours.  How  silent  you  and  George  are 
this  morning,  to  be  sure!" 

George  looked  annoyed,  Maglalen  blushed,  and  there  was 
an  awkward  little  pause. 

**  It  oan't  be  that  either  of  you  overfatigaed  joorselyes 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


51 


daaoing,"  pnraaed  Miss  Wiuters,  seeing  their  embarrassment, 
and  highly  enjoying  it,  **  because  Magdalen  didn't  dance 
half  a  dozen  times,  and  George  didn't  dance  at  all.  And  then 
in  the  evening — and  that  reminds  me.  Where  did  you  two  go 
oft  together  in  the  evening?  Everybody  wondered,  and  poor 
Sam  Goldham —  Magdalen,  you  ought  to  have  seen  his  dis- 
tressed face." 

Mr.  Barstone  rose  from  the  table,  with  a  frown,  and  the 
governess  made  an  imperative  signal  to  her  pnpil  to  cease. 

**  I  want  you  to  practice  that  duet  in  *  Massaniello '  im- 
mediately," she  said,  also  rising.  *'  Come.  Mr.  Barstone, 
good-morning." 

She  swept  away,  leaving  George  by  the  window,  gazing 
gloomily  out. 

A  drearily  wet  day  had  followed  yesterday's  brilliant  sunshine 
and  moonlight.  A  low,  complaining  wind  tossed  the  trees, 
and  the  flat  fields  lay  sodden  uuder  a  leaden  sky. 

The  lawyer  made  no  pretense  of  going  to  Milford  that  day. 
He  wandered  in  and  out,  like  a  feverish  ghost,  lying  forlornly 
on  the  sofa,  trying  to  read,  or  smoking  insanely  under  the 
dripping  trees. 

Why  did  she  keep  him  in  suspense?  Why  did  she  not  pro- 
nounce his  doom  at  once?  How  could  she  go  about  her  daily 
tasks  with  that  face  of  changeless  calm?  How  merciless  all 
women  were  to  the  men  who  loved  them  I 

Magdalen  did  studiously  avoid  him.  She  kept  Fanny  afc 
the  piano  all  the  forenoon,  until  that  tortured  young  person 
broke  out  into  an  agonized  cry  for  freedom. 

She  chained  her  down  to  **  Ollendorf's  Method  "  and  the 
**  Decline  and  Fall,"  until  Miss  Wiuters  turned  hoarse,  and 
hated  Gibbon  and  the  whole  Roman  Empire. 

The  early  dinner  and  tea  agreeably  diversified  these  intel- 
lectual pursuits;  the  shades  of  evening  fell,  and  still  the  priS' 
oner  at  Golden  Willows  was  **  waiting  for  the  verdict." 

"  I'll  wait  no  longer,"  he  thought,  desperately.  "She 
shall  give  me  my  answer  after  tea. " 

He  never  spoke  during  that  meal.  Fanny's  small-talk  chat- 
tered about  his  ears  like  the  patter  of  the  ceaseless  summer 
rain,  all  unheard.  It  was  ended  at  last,  and  the  girls  rose  to 
go.  Then  Mr.  Barstone  wielded  mantood's  scepter  and  as- 
serted his  rights. 

**  Fanny,  go  upstairs  and  remain  with  your  aunt  Miss 
Wayne,  be  good  enough  to  stay  where  you  are;  1  wish  to  speak 
^irithyou." 


$8 


MAGDALEN'S    ViOW. 


I, 


/ 


There  was  au  imperious  ring  in  the  yoang  man's  Toloe,  an 
unwonted  fire  in  his  eye,  that  made  him  their  master. 

**  Goodness  1"  interjected  Fanny,  under  her  breath,  not 
daring  to  disobey. 

And  lyiagdalen  paused,  paling  perceptibly. 

Mr.  Barstone  dashed  impetuously  into  the  heart  of  his  sub-, 
ject  at  once. 

"You  have  persistently  avoided  me  all  day.  Miss  Wayne, 
and  left  me  in  a  state  of  unendurable  suspensie.  You  prom* 
ised  me  my  answer  to-day.     You  must  keep  that  promise." 

He  was  standing  before  her — very  pale  for  him.  Magdalen 
still  lingered  by  the  door,  her  hand  upon  the  lock,  her  fair 
head  drooping. 

The  rainy  gloaming  was  just  clear  enough  to  show  him  that 
slender,  bending  shape — that  sweet,  downcast  face.  The  twi- 
light picture  never  left  him  in  the  troubled  days  to  come. 

'*  1  should  not,  1  suppose,''  Magdalen  said,  falteringly— 
**  I  should  not  have  kept  you  waiting  so  long.  But  I  meant 
to  speak  to-night,  and  " — still  more  falteringly— "  it  is  so 
very  hard  to  say.  *' 

A  lump  rose  in  George  Barstone's  throat.  Perhaps  it  was 
his  heart,  for  that  organ  seemed  suddenly  to  have  ceased 
beating. 

**  So  very  hard  to  say,  Miss  Wayne?  Then  my  answer  is 
to  be  No." 

His  voice  sounded  strange,  and  hollow,  and  far-off,  even  to 
himself,  and  he  knew  he  was  whiter  than  ashes. 

**  No — no!"  Magdalen  cried,  impetuously;  **  at  least — that 
is,  I  mean  I  have  a  story  to  tell  you  that  may  cause  you  to 
change  your  mind. " 

-  **  Change  my  mind!  Magdalen,  1  think  there  is  nothing 
on  earth  could  make  me  do  that." 

**  Ah,  you  shall  see!  1  am  going  to  tell  you  my  story,  and 
when  you  hear  how  I  have  deceived  you,  you  surely  will.  No 
one  could  blame  you  for  doing  it." 

George  Barstone  crossed  the  room  and  took  a  seat  by  the 
window — still  very,  very  pale,  still  strangely  calm.  There 
was  a  chair  opposite,  upon  which  the  faint  light  fell  strongest. 
He  motioned  her  to  that. 

**  Deceived  me!"  he  repeated,  looking  at  the  downcast 
face.     **  How  have  you  done  that,  Miss  Wayne?" 

**  By  that  name,  for  one  thing.  I  am  not  Miss  Wayne. 
My  name  is  Magdalen  Wayne  All  ward," 

There  was  a  pause. 


MAGDALEH  S    VOW. 


59 


**  STonr  name  Is  All  ward?  Whv,  then,  are  you  here  as  Miss 
Wayne?" 

That  is  my  story.  The  end  I  had  in  view  in  changing 
my  name  is  an  end  un attained  yet — an  end  I  may  never  at- 
tam.  There  is  a  secret  in  my  Iffe,  Mr.  Barstone;  that  life  is 
consecrated  to  one  purpose.  I  am  not  like  other  girls,  free 
and  unfettered;  1  have  vowed  my  whole  existence  to  a  pur- 
pose that  may  even  stand  between  me  and  the  man  I  marry — 
if  marry  I  should.  That  is  why  1  could  not  answer  you  last 
night '' 

Mr.  Barstone  listened  with  r>  face  of  dense  mystification. 

**  Then  it  was  through  no  personal  dislike,  Magdalen?  only 
because  of  this  secrat?  If  it  —this  strange  purpose — did  not 
exist,  Magdalen — Magdalen,  would  your  answer  have  been 
Yes?" 

He  leaned  forward  breathlessly,  catching  both  her  hands. 

Magdalen's  drooping  head  bent  lower  for  an  instant,  then 
lifted  proudly,  with  a  tender,  virginal  blush. 

*'  Why  should  I  deny  it?  You  are  a  good  man,  Mr.  Bar- 
stone. Your  offer  is  an  honor  to  any  woman,  and  1  love  you 
very  dearly.  Whatever  you  may  think  of  me  when  you  hear 
my  story— whatever  change  it  may  make  in  your  feelings— 
btilieve  me,  the  memory  of  your  goodness  and  affection  will 
ever  be  the  dearest  memory  of  my  life." 

Something  in  the  sad  solemnity  of  her  tone,  something  in 
the  mournful  sweetness  of  her  face,  hushed  the  impetuous 
words  he  would  have  uttered. 

Magdalen  went  on: 

"  Four  years  ago,  Mr.  Barstone,  ]  left  a  happy  country 
home,  a  loving  father,  a  beautiful  elder  sister,  an  honesty 
gentle  brother,  a  kind  old  nurse,  and  went  to  New  Haven  to 
schooL  I  was  away  barely  a  year,  when  I  was  sent  for  in 
haste  to  return.  I  knew  beforehand  that  great  and  sad 
changes  had  occurred  in  my  absence;  but  I  was  not  prepared 
for  the  awful  bereavement  that  had  fallen  upon  me.  My  fa- 
ther was  in  his  grave,  a  heart-broken,  disgraced  old  man;  my 
brother  was  in  a  felon's  cell;  my  sister  lay  dead  in  the  house. 
Only  my  poor  nurse  was  left  to  bid  me  welcome.  And,  Mr. 
Barstone,  all  this  ruin  and  death  was  the  work  of  one  man." 

George  Barstone  uttered  a  faint  exclamation;  but  she  never 
looked  at  him.  Her  hands  were  folded  in  her  lap,  her  eyes 
gazing  oat  in  their  fathomless  sadness  at  the  leaden  evening 
sky. 

**  This  man — this  demon  in  man's  form — came  to  our  viU 
lage,  to  our  house,  in  insidious  friendship.    He  was  handsome, 


60 


haodaleh'8  vow. 


aud  elegant,  and  gentlemanly,  and  easily  won  my  poor  sister's 
trusting  heart.  How  was  she  to  know,  poor  child!  of  the 
wickedness  and  deceit  of  this  bad  world,  brought  up  as  she 
was?  She  loved  him,  she  believed  him,  she  trusted  him  en- 
tirely. 

**  It  is  the  old  story,  Vr,  Barstcne,  of  man's  perfidy  and 
woman's  jliud  faith.     There  were  high  and  mighty  relatives, 
away  in  New  York,  whom  he  dare  not  ofifend  by  openly  mar- 
rying so  lowly  a  bride.     If  she  would  but  follow  him  to  the* 
city,  they  would  be  united  secretly  and  at  onoe. 

**  She  consented — she  followed  him — there  was  a  mockery 
of  marriage  performed,  reiil  and  holy  to  her,  and  she  was  as 
surely  the  villain's  v/ife,  in  tho  sight  of  Heaven,  as  woman 
ever  was  yet. 

**  That  was  the  beginning  of  the  end.  My  father,  as  proud 
a  man  in  his?  stainless  integrity  as  earth  ever  saw,  never  lifted 
his  head  again.  Only  her  flight  was  known  and  believed  iu; 
no  one  credited  a  marriage.  It  needed  but  his  son's  fall  to 
send  him  to  his  grave. 

**  Willie  went  to  New  York  to  complete  his  medical  studies, 
and  there  he  encountered  the  man  who  had  lured  away  bis 
sister.  Instead  of  seeking  justice  and  reparation  for  that 
wrong,  he  became  his  friend.  The  wretch  was  a  professional 
gambler.  - 

'*  Willie  was  but  a  boy,  weak  and  easily  tempted.  He  fell 
a  victim  to  the  tempter's  crafty  wiles,  and  became  heart  and 
soul  a  gambler,  too.  The  downward  <ice  was  rapid  A  few 
months,  and  all  he  po^eas^ed  was  gone.  The  terrible  spell 
held  him  fast;  he  forged  a  sigr.ature,  was  detected,  arrested, 
tried,  and  sentenced  to  Sing  Sing  for  four  years." 

She  paused  in  her  dreadful  tale,  rigid,  and  tearless,  and 
white;  and  George  Burstune  spo'ie  suddenly,  in  a  voice  that 
did  not  sound  like  his  own: 

**  Do  you  desik'e  to  keep  secret  this  man's  name?  If  yoa| 
do  not — " 

*'  1  do  not,"  Magdalen  interrupted.  "  His  name  was 
Maurice  Langley. " 

There  was  a  pause.  Mr.  Barstone  drew  back  into  the 
shadow  of  the  curtains,  where  his  face  was  hidden. 

*'  Maurice  Langley  ivas  the  name  he  gavO;,"  the  girl  went 
slowly  on;  **  but  of  course  it  was  assumed.  In  fact,  my  sis- 
ter discovered  positively  that- it  waa." 

**  And  she  discovered  his  real  name?" 

**  No.     Ah,  if  she  had  only  discovered  tiiat!" 

^*  What  was  he  like — this  Maurice  Langlbj?'* 


hagdalen's  tow. 


61 


••  Tall  and  handsome,  with  dark  hair,  and  whiskers,  very 
•leganfc  in  address  and  manner.  Why,*'  she  asked,  with  sud- 
den suspicion,  **do  you  know  him?" 

**  No,"  replied  George  Barstone — '*  no,  1  don't  know  him.'* 

But  he  still  spoke  in  a  strange,  constrained  voice,  and  kept 
his  face  persistently  shadowed  by  the  window-curtains. 

**  Willie's  ruin  completed  what  Laura's  flight  began,"  pur- 
sued Magdalen;  **  it  killed  my  father!  My  poor  nurse  was 
left  alone  in  the  old  homestead,  never  expecting  to  see  any  of 
her  children,  save  myself,  again,  when,  all  at  once,  without 
word  or  warning,  after  weary  months  of  waiting,  a  aura  came 
home — came  home  to  die,  Mr.  Barstone,  and  leave  a  baby- 
girl  behind  her.  She  had  discovered  all  the  falsel-'ond  and 
treachery  of  the  wretch  who  had  lured  her  away,  anu,  mad- 
dened by  the  discovery,  she  fled  from  him  at  dead  of  night,  a 
crazed  and  frantic  woman.  He  had  a  wife  living  before  he 
ever  met  her;  she  had  never  been  that  for  one  moment.  She 
was  disgraced  and  lost;  there  was  nothing  left  but  to  die. 

*'  Nurse  Rachel  sent  for  me.  I  returned  home;  1  saw  her 
in  her  winding-sheet;  1  saw  her  laid  in  her  grave.  On  her 
death-bed  she  had  written  me  a  letter,  telling  me  all — telling 
me  she  died  with  no  forgiveness  for  her  betrayer.  No;  her 
wrongs  were  c  3  many  and  great  that  even  on  her  death-bed 
she  could  not  forgive. 

**  And,  Mr.  Barstone,  kneeling  by  her  grave,  I  vowed  never 
to  forgive  him,  either.  1  swore  there,  alone  with  Heaven 
and  my  dead,  to  devote  my  life  to  seeking  out  the  murderer 
of  all  I  loved  best,  and  bring  him  to  justice  for  his  crimes.  1 
vowed  to  be  avenged  upon  Maurice  Langley,  wherever  and 
whenever  I  should  meet  him;  and  if  I  live,  1  will  keep  that 
vow!" 

The  ringing  voice  ceased.  There  was  a  long,  thrilling 
pause.  The  rainy  twilight  was  darkness  now,  through  which 
the  girl's  white  face  gleamed. 

George  Barstone  sat  stonily  still,  an  hour  or  two,  as  it 
seemed  to  him  in  that  supreme  moment.  Then  he  spoke  out 
of  the  darkness r 

"This  is  all?" 

**  All!"  repeated  Magdalen.  **  You  know  the  Story  of  my 
life  as  1  know  it  myself.     It  is  my  secret,  and  you  must  keep 


1  will  keep  a  thousand  secrets,  if  you  will  consent  to  be 
my  wife." 

**  Mr.  Barstone,  after  all  this,  can  you — will  you — " 
I  can  and  I  wiill"  George  ans\7ered,  rising  and  taking 


f  i 


<( 


C2 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


her  in  his  arms.  **  My  owj  Magdalen,  what  is  there  in  all 
this  to  keep  us  apurt?  It  U  a  sad  and  pitiful  story,  my  dear- 
est; but  you  have  sufEered  enough  already,  without  letting  it 
blight  your  whole  life.  My  poor,  wronged  girl,  let  me  try 
and  make  you  forget  the  troubles  of  the  past — let  me  make 
you  my  beloved  wife. " 

Magdalen's  face  fell  on  his  shoulder,  with  a  sort  of  sob. 
She  bad  been  aioue  in  the  world  so  long  that  it  was  unuttera-f 
bly  sweet,  this  loving  and  being  beloved.  ' 

**  1  will  try  and  make  you  so  happv,  my  own  dear  girl,  that 
you  will  forget  this  cruel  trouble  of  the  past,  and  this  wild, 
avenging  vow,"  George  said,  holding  her  close  to  his  heart 
**  I  will  love  you  so  dearly  that  you  will  forget  Maurice  Lang- 
ley  and  his  villainy." 

The  words  awoke  Magdalen  from  her  short  moment  of 
bliss.     She  lifted  her  head,  and  struggled  from  his  arms. 

**  No!"  she  exclaimed.  **  No,  George  Barstone,  1  will 
never  forget!  Maurice  Langley  is  my  deadly  foe;  I  will 
never  forget — never  forgive!  Heaven  helping  me,  I  will  keep 
my  vow!" 

"  Heaven  will  not  help  you,  Magdalen.  There,"  pointing 
upward,  **  is  the  only  Avenger.  Wait,  my  own  dear  girl- 
wait!  The  mill  of  the  gods  grinds  slowly,  but  terribly  sure. 
You  have  been  wronged,  my  darling,  but  forgetfulness  is  a 
duty.  This  wild  talk  of  revenge  sounds  monstrous  from  lips 
BO  fair  and  sweet " 

"Yes,  yes,  1  know!"  the  girl  cried,  impatiently.  **1 
know  what  you-would  say — it  has  all  been  said  to  me  before. 
It  is  unwomanly,  it  is  wicked,  it  is  unchristian!  I  don't 
know,  I  don't  care,  1  don't  believe  ii!  I  do  not  ask  revenge 
—I  only  ask  justice." 

She  began  walking  up  and  down — always  her  habit  when 
excited. 

"See  here,  Mr.  Barstone,"  she  said,  **  they  were  all  the 
world  to  me — father,  sister,  brother.  He  was  more  fiend 
than  man,  who  wrought  their  ruin.  He  deserves  no  mercy; 
he  will  find  none  from  me." 

"  What  will  you  do?"~ 

George  Barstone *s  voice  sounded  cold  and  a  little  stern,  - 
after  those  girlish,  passionate  tones. 

**  I  don't  know — I  can't  tell.  He  may  be  dead  and  buried; 
he  may  be  alive,  and  I  may  never  meet  him.  I  may  see  him 
to-morrow,  and  not  know  him.  But  if  1  ever  do  meet  him, 
and  know  him,  I  tell  you  I  will  keep  my  promise  to  my  dead 
sister." 


1 


\ 


t^ 


hagdalek's  vow. 


63 


i 


I 


*•  How?" 

•'  1  don't  know— but  1  will  keep  it." 

The  lawyer  smiled,  in  the  dusk,  at  the  feminine,  impotent 
yehenience. 

**  IIow?"  he  reiterated.  **  You  won't  murder  him,  *I  sup- 
pose, Magdalen?  And  what  else  can  you  do?  The  law  won't 
^)uni8h  him  because  your  sister  eloped  with  him,  or  because 
he  taught  your  brother  to  play  cards.  Those  accusations 
won't  stand  in  a  court  of  law." 

**Mr.  Barstone,"  said  Magdalen,  stopping  in  her  rapid 
walk,  and  speaking  slowly  and  impressively,  **  I  am  only  a 

girl— a  weak,  helpless  girl — and  there  is  not  one  chance  to 
fty  that  I  ma^  ever  meet  this  man.  I  have  changed  my 
name,  so  that  if  we  should,  by  chance,  meet,  he  might  not 
recognize  me  by  that.  I  resemble  my  dead  sister — that  is 
beyoLvd  my  power  to  help.  I  may  never  meet  Maurice  Lang- 
ley,  b!it  I  have  told  you  all  this,  lest  in  the  chapter  of  acci- 
dents to  cc/tne  that  meeting  may  be  numbered.  If  1  were  to 
take  you  at  your  ^ord,  and  become  your  wife,  concealing  my 
life's  purpose,  I  should  be  doing  you  a  wrong.  If,  knowing 
fdl,  my  steadfast,  unalterable  resolve,  you  stil)  are  of  the  same 
mind,  then,  no  matter  how  soon  I  meet  him,  I  shall  be  justi- 
fied, as  far  as  you  are  concerned,  in  keeping  my  vow.  A^d  I 
would  keep  it,  Mr.  Barstone,  in  spite  of  fifty  husbands!"  ' 

"Magdalen!  Magdalen!  my  impetuous,  foolish  girl!  Once 
again,  what  would  you  do?" 

'*  And,  once  again,  I  can  not  tell  you  now.  But  such  a 
man  as  that  must  have  guilty,  hidden  secrets  that  would  lay 
nim  open  to  the  law.  If  1  could  do  no  better,  I  would  spend 
my  days  and  nights  tracking  out  these.  1  would  dog  him  like 
a  sleuth-hound.  I  would  hunt  him  down,  and  go  to  his  hang- 
ing with  pleasure!" 

^he  clinched  her  hands  passionately,  and  her  eyes  flashed 
fire  in  the  deepening  dusk.  And  this  was  the  fair-haired, 
blue-eyed,  low-voiced  divinity  of  his  dreams,  but  one  remove 
or  so  from  an  angel.  / 

**  Magdalen!    Good  heavens!"  cried  her  lover,  aghast. 

**  1  would — I  tell  you  I/Would!  If  there  were  no  other  way, 
I  thicii:  I  would  tempt  him  to  commit  a  crime,  that  I  might 
hand  him  over  for  punishment.  Oh,  Mr.  Barstone,  you  don't 
know  me  yet!  I  tell  you  I  have  brooded  over  this  man's  vil- 
lainy until  I  have  been  half  mad;  and  if  ever  I  meet  him — no 
matter  how — my  heart  will  be  harder  to  him  than  this  mar- 
blel" 

She  straok  the  table  lightly  with  her  clinched  hand,  stand' 


64 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


i  • 


;  rr 


' 


^ 


ing  up,  in  her  passion  and  indomitable  resolution,  a  BternljT 
beaiitiiul  young  Nemesis. 

There  was  a  pause.  Poor  George  stood  with  a  very  blank 
face  indeed. 

**  I  tell  you  all  this,  Mr.  Barstone,"  Masjdalen  resumed,  in 
a  steadier  voine,  **  because  I  esteem  you  so  highly,  and — yea, 
why  should  1  deny  it? — because  I  love  you  so  weJL  No  man 
shall  ever  marry  me  and  think  me  better  than  1  am." 

"There  is  no  need,  Muijfdalen. '*  He  crossed  over  in  one 
stride,  and  caught  her  in  his  arms.  **  You  are  mine — mine 
forever — since  you  love  me  I  My  poor  darling!  Maurice 
Langley  shall  never  keep  us  apart;  he  has  done  too  much  evil 
already.     You  shall  be  my  wife — come  weal,  come  woe!" 

His  voice  lowered,  a  sort  of  ominous  solemnity  thrilled  in 
his  touu,  and  for  an  instant  there  was  a  chill  at  his  heart. 
Gone  as  quickly  as  it  came — more  quickly,  for  Magdalen  All- 
ward's  beautiful  face  lay  on  his  breast — her  home  for  life. 

**  Dear  George!  how  good — how  generous  you  are!"  Ah, 
how  altered  her  tone  from  a  moment  before — so  infinitely 
grateful,  loving,  and  womanly  now!  **  I  am  not  half  worthy 
of  you.  1  am  a  passionate,  hot-tempered  girl;  but  I  love  you 
very  dearly,  and  1  will  try,  with  Heaven's  help,  to  make  you 
as  good  a  wife  as  a  better  woman." 

And  just  here  the  door  was  flung  wide  by  an  impetuous 
hand,  and,  with  a  strong  swish  of  silk,  some  one  bounced  in. 

**  May  1  come  in  now?"  cried  Miss  Winters,  in  shrill  sar- 
casm. **  Aunt  Lydia's  been  asleep  these  two  hours,  and  I've 
been —  Good  gracious  me!  there's  no  one  here,  and  all's  in 
the  dark!     Where  on  earth  are  Magdalen  and  George?" 

Miss  Winters  found  the  match-box,  after  a  good  deal  of 
fumbling,  distracted  in  her  search  by  the  upsetting  of  a  foot- 
stool and  the  swift  shutting  of  the  door.  But  sue  struck  a 
lucifer  at  last,  lighted  the  lamp,  and  beheld  George  sitting 
serenely  in  an  arm-chair,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  gazing  at 
her. 

**  Oh,  you're  here!"  exclaimed  the  young  lady,  looking 
blankly  around.     "  Where's  Magdalen?" 

*'  Where  she  pleases.     She's  not  here." 

*'  Who  went  out  just  now?"  demanded  Fanny,  with 
asperity. 

**  It  was  dark,  and  I'm  not  a  oat.  You  ought  to  know  as 
well  as  1  do." 

*'  Ought  I?"  with  scorn.  **  1  dare  say  1  do,  too.  1  came 
in  too  soon,  didn't  I?  I  had  better  go  back  and  stay  with 
Aant  Lydia  a  few  hours  longer,  hadn't  I?" 


I 


t  .  \^.' 


1 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


05 


I 


; 


r      -*■'%, 


•*  Fanny,*'  her  cousin  said,  placidly,  **  don't  try  to  be  sar- 

oastlo — it  Isn't  your  forte.  And  I  wish  you  wouldn't  bother 
me  with  questions — go  away,  like  a  good  girl.  1  want  to 
smolce,  and  loolc  over  my  notes  of  the  Scroggins  t*^.  BoggB 
caae,  whinh  comes  up  to-morrow." 

Miss  Winters  smiled  sardonically. 

**  Hcroggiiis  vs.  Ho^gs,  indeed!  It's  all  very  fine  and  plausi- 
ble, Mr.  Special  Pleader;  but  it  doesn't  deceive  mol  lou've 
been  and  asked  Magdalen,  you  know,  under  cover  of  the  dark*; 
nesa,  and  she  ran  away  when  1  came  in.  I'll  go  and  find  her. . 
I'll  know  by  her  face  directly  whether  it's  to  be  or  not— 
though  of  course  it  is,  or  George  would  never  look  so  ridicu- 
lously blissful.  1  wonder  whether  I  had  beat  wear  pink  or 
blue,  as  first  bride-maid?"  - 


CHAPTER  X. 

ENGAGED. 

Like  the  most  dutiful  of  nephews,  and  the  happiest  of  men, 
as  he  was,  George  Barstone  sought  his  aunt  in  her  room,  early 
next  morning,  and  reported  the  favorable  result  of  his  woo- 
ing. It  scarcely  needed  many  words,  for  one  look  at  that 
illuminated  countenance,  quite  glorified  by  bliss,  at  once  in- 
formed Miss  Barstone  how  matters  stood. 

**  My  foolish,  lovesick  boy!"  Aunt  Lydia  said,  tapping  him 
on  the  cheek;  **  it  seems  only  yesterday  since  you  came  run- 
ning in,  with  that  same  beautiful  face,  to  thank  me  for  a  new 
humming-top.  And  so  pretty  Magdalen  has  said  yes,  and 
our  impetuous  George  is  to  have  his  new  toy?" 

**  She  has  said  yes.  Aunt  Lydia,  and  she  has  told  me  the 
Btory  of  her  life." 

**  Indeed!    There  is  a  story,  then?" 

**  Yes;  a  story  of  suffering,  sorrow,  and  cruel  wrong.  My 
poor  girl  has  endured  enough  in  her  twenty  years  for  a  long 
life-time. "  

And  then  George  sat  down  beside  his  aunt  and  repeated  the 
story  he  had  heard  last  evening  in  the  twilight.  He  told 
everything — the  assumed  name,  the  Quixotic  vow  of  venge- 
ance. 

**  It  is  very  wild,  romantic,  and  silly,  this  scneme  of  revenge 
— this  girlish  vendetta,"  the  lover  pleaded,  deprecatingly; 
**  and  what  one  would  hardly  look  for  in  so  sensible  a  girl  as 
Magdalen.  3ut  as  it  is  the  rcmoteKt  of  all  remote  possibili' 
ties,  her  ever  meeting  or  knowing  this  Maurice  Langley,  why, 
let  her  cherish  her  foolish  delusions.     It  in  really  marvelous, 


66 


MAGDALEN*B    VOW, 


tkd  hold  this  desire  of  f  utare  revenge  has  upon  her  mind.  It 
seems  to  have  become  a  sort  of  monomania  with  her/' 

**  And  monomanias  are  very  troablesome  and  dangerous 
things,  George/'  his  aunt  said,  gravely.  '*  Magdalen  is  a 
very  resolute  young  person,  and  ii  ^his  absurd  infatuation 
grows  and  strengthens,  the  day  may  come  when  it  will  cost 
you  and  her  very  serious  trouble.'* 

It  was  Magdalen  herself  who,  in  an  interview  that  morn- 
ing, had  given  her  lover  permission  to  unfold  her  cherished 
secret  to  his  aunt 

"  I  can  trust  Miss  Barstone  with  it,  George,"  she  said, 
blushing  pretti'y  as  she  pronounced  the  name.  '*  I  can  trust 
her,  but  not  Fanny,  whom  I  know  too  well,  and  not  your 
cousin  Philip,  whom  1  don't  know  at  all.  I  suppose  1  must 
be  married  under  my  real  name,  and  sign  it  in  the  register; 
but  a  few  words  of  explanation  will  suffice  for  the  clergyman. 
Wayne  is  my  name,  also,  and  by  it  I  shall  continue  to  bo 
called. " 

**  Until  you  change  it  for  Tarstone,  my  dearest,"  George 
replied;  **and  the  change  musi  be  very  soon.  No  need  for 
us  to  wait.  This  will  be  our  home  after  oar  marriage,  as  it 
is  now.  Aunt  Lydia  will  not  hear  for  a  mcment  of  our  de- 
eeriing  her." 

Miss  Barstone  had  listened  to  the  story  vrith  a  very  grave 
and  thoughtful  face. 

**  It  is,  as  you  say,"  she  remarked  to  her  nephew,  **  a  very 
remote  possibility,  the  meeting  of  Magdalen  and  her  enemy; 
but  yet  it  is  a  possibility,  and,  as  such,  worth  considering. 
Should  she,  in  the  wonderful  course  of  things,  ever  encounter 
him,  I  trouble  for  your  future.  She  has  a  powerful  will,  and 
seems  bent,  with  all  her  migbt,  on  keeping  her  melodramatic 
vow." 

"  Fully  bent  now,  my  dear  aunt;  but  who  knows  the  change 
time,  and  happiness,  and  life's  new  duties  may  bring?  She 
has  been  suffering  for  the  past  four  years  from  the  conse- 
quences of  that  villain's  work,  and  so  has  been  unable  to 
lorget.  It  will  be  different  in  the  future.  We  will  all 
make  her  so  happy,  there  will  be  no  room  left  in  her 
leart  for  anything  but  peace  with  the  whole  world.  Don't 
wear  that  foreboding  face,  my  good  auntie;  all  will  go 
well.  I  feel  as  though  1  had  taken  a  new  lease  of  life  and  joy 
this  morning,  and  1  don't  want  you  to  darken  my  sunshme 
by  the  smallest  cloud." 

**  And  I  won't!"  said  Miss  Barstone,  with  some  of  his  own 
impetuosity.    **  Go  send  Magdalen  to  me.    I  like  Miss  Wayne 


IIAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


67 


Tery  much  now,  but  I  Intend  to  love  my  favorite  nephew's 
wife  with  my  whole  heart." 

Ma^gdaien  came,  blushing  and  smiling — happy,  and  maid- 
enly, and  gentle;  and  good  little  Miss  Barstone  laushed  to 
herself  at  the  notion  of  that  shy,  blushing  bride-elect  becom- 
ing a  future  avenger. 

**  George  was  right,*'  she  thought  as  she  kissed  her.  **  She 
will  forget  all  her  past  wrongs  and  troubles  when  ^he  is  his 
happy  wife." 

Which  conclusion  simply  went  to  prove  how  little  the  sim- 
ple-minded old  maid  really  knew  of  the  blue-eyed,  fair-haired 
girl  before  her. 

Dearly  as  Magdalen  loved  George  Barstone,  she  would  have 
given  him  up,  then  and  there,  with  Spartan  resolution,  if  the 
choice  lay  between  him  and  her  pledged  faith  to  her  dead  sis- 
ter. She  was  wrong,  and  absurd,  and  wicked,  of  course;  but 
she  was  only  a  headstrong  girl,  and  no  perfect  creature  by  any 
means.  The  cruel  wrongs  of  her  sister  and  brother  burned 
deep  in  her  very  soul — too  deep  for  any  length  of  time,  or 
any  happiness,  however  perfect,  to  efface. 

**  I  am  very,  very  glad,  my  dear,"  Miss  Barstone  said.  **  I 
don't  think  my  boy  ^jould  have  found  a  better  or  prettier  wife 
anywhere  than  my  golden-haired  Magdalen!  Don't  blush, 
my  dear;  George  isn't  present,  and  we  may  speak  the  truth  to 
each  other.     Does  Fanny  know?" 

**  Not  yet,"  Magdalen  answered;  "  and  she  is  possessed  by 
a  devouring  curiosity,  I  am  sure.  She  will  not  be  greatly  sur- 
prised, 1  fancy.  She  suspected  how  matters  stood  before  I  did 
myself. " 

**  Poor  child  I  her  head  never  runs  on  anything  else  than 
lovers,  weddings,  and  new  dresses,  and  party-going!  Inform 
her  at  once,  my  dear.  I  know  she  is  undergoing  agonies  of 
suspense. " 

So  Magdalen,  going  down  again,  and  finding  Miss  Winters 
roaming  alone  and  disconsolate  about  the  lower  rooms,  put 
her  arms  around  her  in  very  girlish  fashion^  and  whispered 
her  sweet  secret  in  her  ear. 

Fanny  gave  ^i  little  shriek  of  pure  ecstasy. 

**  Oh,  Magdalen!  I'm  so  glad,  I'm  so  glad!  And  you'll 
have  me  for  first  bride-maid — for,  of  course,  there  must  be 
half  a  dozen  at  least!  And  you'll  wear  white  silk,  and  Brus- 
sels lace,  and  orange-blossoms,  and  the  bride-maids  shall  wea: 
Wue!" 

**  What!    Blue  orange-blossoms?" 

'*  ISlonsensel    No;  dresses.    Blae  becomes  me  better  than 


« 


€8 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


# 


pink,  I  think;  though  I  like  pink  beat.  And  Phil  will  come 
down,  of  course,  and  stand  up  with  George.  And  one  wed- 
ding makes  many,  you  know;  and  who  can  tell  but  it  may 
oome  my  turn  next?" 

And  at  the  bare  idea  Misa^l^inters  went  up  and  dov/n,^  in 
little  springs  of  joy,  on  her  chair. 

So  everj'body  at  all  interested  in  the  matter  had  been  told, 
and  everybody,  strange  to  relate,  was  delighted. 

George's  course  of  true  love  seemed  in  a  fair  way  of  run- 
ning as  smooth  as  a  sunlit  lake — not  even  a  ripple  on  that 
usually  tuirbid  sea.  He  wrote  to  his  cousin  Philip,  telling 
him  the  jubilant  tidings,  and  exhorting  him  to  "run  down 
and  be  best  man  at  the  wedding." 

Dr.  P.  Barstone  wrote  back,  by  return  mail,  his  rather 
cynical  congratulations,  promising  that,  if  at  all  possible,  to 
be  at  Golden  Willows  on  the  grand  occasion,  and  mspect  the 
bride,  and  see  the  bridegroom  taking  his  **  leap  in  the  dark." 

Yes,  everybody  was  pleased,  except,  perhaps,  Mr.  Sam 
Gold  ham,  who  had  had  vague  ideas  lately  of  taking  Fanny 
Winters'  handsome  governess  to  himself,  and  sundry  Milford 
young  ladies,  who  had  long  cast  the  eye  of  regard  on  the 
good-looking,  very  well-off  young  lawyer. 

But  these  exceptions  were  of  no  account,  and  Mr.  George 

.Barstone  lived  by  day,  and  slumbered  by  night,  up  in  the 

seventh  heaven — in  the  **  Fool's  Paradise,"  as  his  sarcastic 

medical  cousin  termed  it — higher,  indeed,  if  there  be  any 

higher  Elysium. 

'*  And  we  will  be  married  right  away,*'  he  said,  impetuous-^ 
ly.  '*  Where's  the  use  of  waiting?  You  have  no  authorities 
to  consult,  or  anything  of  that  sort,  and  the  sooner  I'm  a  sen- 
sible, responsible  married  man,  the  better  Aunt  Lydia  will  bo 
pleased.  Let's  get  married  next  month,  and  be  a  *  comforta- 
ole  couple,'  like  Tim  Linken water  and  Little  Miss  La— what's 
her  name?" 

Of  course,  Magdalen  protested  vehemently,  quite  shocked 
at  such  indecorous  haste.  It  would  be  ridiculous,  it  would  be 
preposterous,  it  would  be  outrageous,  such  wild  hurry! 

But  George  was  set  upon  it,  and  not  to  be  talked  down. 

*'  It's  very  hard  if  1  can't  have  my  way  before  marriage,";] 
grumbled  Mr.  Barstone,  *'  as  I  never  expect  to  after.  I  know' 
you'll  be  a  Xantippe,  Magdalen  (wasn't  that  her  name?),  andJ 
rule  the  roost  with  those  flashing  blue-gray  eyes  of  yours.] 
Tou  can  engage  all  the  dress-makers  in  Milford,  and  send  1( 
two  or  three  bales  of  dry-goods  to  New  York,  and  be  all  read; 
in  ..alf  the  time.    It's  absurd,  the  amount  of  needle-woi 


»    -M 


hagdalek's  vow. 


69 


women  require!  As  if  the  state  of  matrimony  were  in  an- 
other hemisphere,  where  milliners  were  unheard  of  and  dry- 
goods  «^tore8  unknown." 

Thus  beset,  a  compromise  was  effected  with  difficulty^  and 
the  last  week  of  October  fixed  for  the  weddiug. 

Life  was  all  a  holiday  now  for  Fanny,  with  nothing  to  do 
those  long  summer  days  but  revel  in  silks,  and  laces,  and 
muslins,  spending  the  shining  hours  in  long,  delightful  con- 
fabulations with  young  persons  in  the  dress-making  line. 

And  Phil  was  coming — ecstatic  thought! — to  be  grooms- 
man, and  who  could  tell  t^hat  might  come  of  it?  Phil  might 
hanker  after  the  joys  of  married  life,  when  he  once  saw 
George  fairly  embarked  on  that  sunlit  ocean  of  delights — and 
who  more  likely  to  be  the  chosen  bride  than  Miss  Winters 
herself? 

**  And  I  do  like  Phil,  Magdalen,'*  admitted  Fanny  to  the 
bride-elect  **  1  always  liked  him  better  than  George.  He 
doesn't  know  it,  of  course,  and  I  would nH  have  him  suspect 
it  for  the  world  1  How  nice  it  would  be  if  you  were  married  to 
George  and  I  to  Phil,  and  we  were  all  living  together! 
Wouldn't  it,  now?'' 

Magdalen  smiled  quietly.  She  was  happy — very,  very  hap- 
py— but  very  undemonstrative  in  her  happiness. 

She  loved  ihis  big,  gentle-hearted,  boisterous  George  Bar- 
stone  deeply  and  dearly.  She  was  grateful  to  him  for  all  his 
goodness  to  her  and  all  his  trust  in  her,  and  she  was  earnestly 
and  unspeakably  thankful  for  this  great  and  blessed  change 
in  her  life.  It  was  so  sweet  to  be  loved,  and  trusted,  and 
cherished,  and  protected;  to  feel  that  there  were  those  in  the 
world  who  would  think  it  a  drearier  place  without  her;  and  a 
home  that  would  be  desolate,  and  hearts  that  would  be  heavy, 
if  she  were  lost.  It  was  unutterably  sweet  to  know  this — how 
sweet,  none  can  tell  lut  those  who  have  been  homeless,  and 
hardly  treated  in  the  houses  of  strangers. 

September  came,  while  yet  the  weifding  preparations  went 
briskly  on.  Carpenters  were  at  work  at  the  house,  fitting  up 
a  range  bt  upper  chambers  for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Barstone'a 
dressing-room,  oedroom  and  parlor,  en  suite ;  seamstresses 
sat  and  sewed,  in  the  bland  sunshine,  on  silk  stiif  enough  to 
stand  alone  for  very  richness,  on  gauzy  muslins  and  organdies, 
fit  for  the  queen  of  the  fairies,  and  on  cr^pe  and  lace  dra- 
peries, in  which  even  the  Maid  of  the  Mist  might  have  robed 
herself. 

Fanny  flitted  upstairs  and  down-stairs  the  bright  day  long, 
orazy  with  delight;  and  Magdalen,  in  the  depth  of  her  new 


70 


MAGDALEN'S   VOW. 


VK 


i 


bliss,  took  a  brighter  and  more  radiant  beauty  than  ever,  and 
her  happy  smiles  chased  each  other  over  her  fair  faoe  in  one 
long  dream  of  joy. 

The  darkness  of  the  past  was  for  the  time  forgotten;  the 
shadow  of  Maurice  Langley's  guilt  never  came  to  darken  the 
glory  of  the  dazzling  present. 

And  Mr.  George  Barstone —  But  the  English  language  is 
poor  and  weak  to  describe  that  young  lawyer's  entranced 
state.  The  dusty  earth  was  an  impalpable  air  under  his 
boots,  the  world  was  Eden,  and  all  the  men  and  women  in  it 
wingless  angels,  and  he  himself  the  most  blessed  and  beatified 
of  mankind. 

The  second  week  of  September,  Magdalen,  in  the  midst  of 
all  the  lass  and  bustle,  snatched  a  few  days,  and  went  on  a 
visit  to  nurse  Kachel  and  little  Laura. 

**  You  might  fetch  them  here  to  live,  you  know,  Magda- 
len," Mr.  Barstone  said,  before  her  departure.  **  There  is 
plenty  of  room,  for  everybody,  and  if  there  isn't,  we'll  make 
it — add  a  wing^here  and  a  tnrrt*;  there,  like  those  old  castles 
w6  read  about  in  story-books,  and  all  of  us  settle  down  socia- 
bly together. " 

Magdalen  laughed  at  the  notion  of  their  pretty  cottage,  with 
wings  and  turrets  tagged  on. 

**  My  old  nurse  is  well  and  comfortable  where  she  is^ 
George,"  she  said.  **  In  fact,  I  don't  think  she  would  ever 
be  as  happy  elsewhere  as  in  the  old  homestead;  so  we  won't 
remove  her.  She  can  come  with  little  Laura  and  make  us  a 
visit  once  in  awhile,  when—" 

A  pause  and  a  bright  blusL 

**  When  we're  married,"  said  Mr.  Barstone..  helpiug  her 
out  **  Just  as  you  please,  Magdalen — only  don't  stay  too 
long  when  yoa  get  there,  for  the  world  is  a  howling  wilderness 
without  you,  you  know." 

The  autumn  leaves  were  whirling  in  golden  and  scarlet 
drifts,  and  the  yellow  October  sunshine  was  sifting  its  long, 
sharp  glances  thought  the  gaunt  maples,  as  Magdalen  walked 
up  the  familiar  road,  in  the  early  afternoon. 

Well-known  faces  peeped  from  doors  and  windows  at  the 
stately  young  lady,  so  tall  and  stylish,  now  that  she  had  left 
off  mourning,  and  opined  that  Magdalen  All  ward  was  grow- 
ing handsomer  every  day. 

Old  nurse  Rachel  sat  on  the  kitchen  doorstep,  knitting  in 
the  bland  afternoon  sunshine,  with  little  Laura  playing  with 
the  bright,  fallen  leaves.  Liille  Laura  was  the  most  charm- 
ing of  all  charming  little  fairies,  with  the  brightest  eyes  that 


MAGDALEN'S   VOW. 


n 


«T6r  flashed  back  sanlight^  and  showers  of  flaxen,  dancing 
curls. 

She  had  sat  there,  in  the  genial  noontime,  when  Magdalen 
came  round  the  angle  of  the  house,  and  stood — a  smiling  ap- 
parition— before  them.  — X 

•*  Magdalen!''  nurse  Bachel  cried,  with  a  little  scream  of 
joyful  surprise.     **  Oh,  my  darling!  is  this  really  you?" 

**  It  really  is,  nursey,"  the  girl  said,  kissing  the  wrinkled 
cheek.  **  You  did  not  expect  me,  did  you?  And  it's  very 
nice  to  get  an  agreeable  surprise,  isn't  it?  Oh,  you  pet! 
what  a  bright  little  witch  you  are  growing!" 

She  snatched  up  Laura  and  covered  the  pretty  baby-face 
with  kisses. 

**  My  pet — my  pet!  my  darling!  you  are  glad  to  see  auntie, 
aren't  you?" 

**  Yes,"  said  Laura,  with  a  little  nod,  "real  glad!  Did 
you  fetch  a  doll  that  opens  and  shuts  its  eyes  this  time, 
auntie?  Your  letter  said  so,  you  know — 'cause  nurse  read  ife 
to  me." 

**  Yes,  1  brought  it,  Laura;  and  lots  and  lots  more  things, 
ever  so  pretty.  Wait  until  auntie's  trunk  comes  up,  and  you 
shall  see.     Is  Laura  a  pretty  good  girl,  nurse?" 

**  Pretty  good — only  too  fond  of  molasses  taffy  and  sitting 
up  after  candle-light.  Come  in,  Magdalen,  and  take  off  your 
things.  Oh,  what  a  pleasant  surprise  this  is!  Are  you  going 
to  make  us  a  nice,  long  visit  this  time?" 

**  Only  three  days,  nursey.  They  can't  spare  me  at  Golden 
Willows." 

The  bright  blue  eyes  sparkled  with  laughing  mischief  as 
they  met  old  Rachel's.  Sitting  down  by  the  kitchen- table, 
the  girl  folded  her  gloved  hands  thereon,  and  sat  looking  at 
her  old  nurse,  with  a  dimpled,  roguish  face. 

**  Can't  they,  indeed?    They  are  very  fond  of  you?" 

'*  Very  fond — uncommonly  fond— fonder  than  you  are, 
nurse  Rachel." 

*'  Ah,  1  don't  believe  that!    They  could  not  bo,  my  pet. 
Ahl  you — you  like  them,  too,  Magdalen?    But  I  know  you 
do." 
^  **  Very  much,  very  much — so  much  that  I  am  going  to — " 

She  broke  off,  the  smiles,  and  dimples,  and  rosy  glows  chas- 
ings each  other  over  her  bright  young  face. 

^*  To  what,  my  dear?" 

Marry  one  oi  them,  nursey." 
My  childl" 


s^ 


<i 


«< 


H 


k 
i. 


72 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


Magdalen  came  oTer  and  knelt  down  beforo  her  old  nurM; 
-putting  her  arms  around  her. 

**  Yea,  indeed,  nursey;  your  child  is  going  to  be  married. 
The  fairy  priace  you  have  been  promising  so  long  has  arrived 
at  last.  Not  that  he  looks  so  much  like  one,  you  know,"  said 
Magdalen,  laughing. 

**  Oh,  my  child— my  child!''  old  Rachel  cried,  breathlessly, 
**  this  is  a  surprise!    Who  is  he?    What  is  his  name?" 

*'  He  is  George  Barstone— Miss  Baratone's  nephew — neither 
wonderfully  rich  nor  wonderfully  handsome,  both  of  which 
the  fairy  prince  was  to  be,  but  tiie  best  and  dearest  fellow  ia 
the  world  wide,  and  I  love  him  with  all  my  heart." 

Her  voice  faltered,  her  eyes  filled,  and  her  face  drooped  for- 
ward and  hid  itself  on  her  nurse's  shoulder. 

**  My  child — my  child!"  It  was  all  Rachel  could  say,  as 
she  patted  ceaselessly  the  bright  head.  *'  My  own  little 
Magdalen!" 

And  I'm  going  to  be  very  happy,  nurse — happy  as  the 
days  are  long— and  you  and  Mistress  Laura,  here,  are  to  come 
twice  or  three  times  a  year,  and  make  me  a  long  visit;  and 
we're  all  going  to  be  just  the  gayest,  merriest  people  the  big 
sun  shines  on.     Aren't  we,  Laura?" 

IShe  snatched  up  the  little  one  and  went  waltzing  round  and 
round  the  room,  like  a  giddy  school -girl  just  let  loose. 

**  Thank  God!"  old  Rachel  said,  fervcL^ly,  "thank  God, 
my  dear,  that  you  are  going  to  be  at  peac^  at  last!  Oh,  my 
child,  I  have  been  troubled  about  you — troubled  more  than  I 
can  tell,  when  I  thought  of  your  bitter  thirst  for  vengeance 
against  Maurice  Langley;  but  now  I  am  content.  You  will 
have  a  happy  home,  a  loving  husband — no  more  drudgery, *no 
more  battling  with  the  hard  world — and  you  will  be  at  peace 
and  forget  him." 

**  Forget  him!"  Magdalen's  face  changed,  as  you  have  seen 
a  summer  sky  change,  all  in  a  moment  She  set  the  child 
down  and  stood  before  her  nurse  with  a  dark  frown  marr- 
ing all  her  fair,  girlish  beauty.  *'  Forget  him — forget  Mau- 
rice Langley!  forget  the  man  who  murdered  my  father  and 
sister!  Oh,  nurse  Rachel,  you  have  known  me  from  my  baby- 
hood, but  you  know  me  very  little  if  you  think  1  ever  can 
forget  that  man!" 

**  Then  you  still—" 

The  old  woman  paused,  dismayeJ. 

**  Hate  him!  hate  him!  hate  him!  Oh,  how  I  do  hate  that 
man!  Look  here,  nurse!  I  love  George  Barstone  with  all  my 
keartj  dearer  than  my  own  life,  and  there  could  be  no  bitterer 


ITACfDALEN'S   VOW. 


73 


aorrow  for  me,  here  below,  than  to  lose  him,  my  plighted  hus- 
band; bat  I  would  gfve  him  up  to-morrow,  freely  and  unhesi- 
tatingly, for  the  chance  of  being  revenged  on  Maurice 
Langleyl*' 

Nurse  Rachel  sat  in  dumb  consternation;  Magdalan  trod 
the  floor  after  her  old,  excited  manner,  with  pale  face  and 
flashing  eyes. 

There  seemed  a  horrible,  unnatural  discrepancy  between 
her  fair,  girlish,  youthful  beauty,  and  the  fierce,  undying 
thirst  for  revenge. 

**  I  will  never  forgive  him;  I  will  never  forget  while  the  life 
beats  here!*'  striking  lightly  on  her  breast.  **  Never,  Rachel 
— never!  1  have  told  George  Barstone  my  story,  I  have  told 
him  my  name,  I  have  told  him  of  the  purpose  to  which  my 
life  is  vowed.  Whatever  happens  in  the  future,  he  shall  not 
say  1  deceived  him.  He  loves  me  well  enough  to  marry  me, 
knowing  all,  and  please  God,  I  will  make  him  a  true,  and 
faithful,  and  loving  wife;  but  I  will  not  forego  my  vow. 
Never — never!*' 

**  And  you  have  not  heard — " 

*'  I  have  not  heard — no — and  1  may  never  hear.  1  may 
have  sat  beside  him;  I  may  yet.  1  may  hold  his  hand  and 
look  in  his  face,  and  yet  not  know  him — that  is  the  thought 
that  drives  me  to  despair.  My  poor,  poor  Laura!  You  lie  in 
your  unavenged  grave  a  long  timer'  Her  eyes  filled  with 
passionate  tears — hot  and  bitter — and  she  impatiently  dashed 
them  away.  **  1  am  almost  afraid  of  my  new  happiness, 
Rachel,  when  I  think  it  may  make  me  less  eager  to  find  Mau- 
rice Langley.  It  seems  ingratitude  to  the  dead,  monstrous 
and  unnatural,  after  all  their  misery,  for  me  to  be  so  hopeful 
and  light-hearted.  But  Fm  only  a  girl,  you  know,  and  I 
oan't  help  it.** 

She  took  Laura  in  her  arms  again;  that  chubby  little  dam- 
sel staring  at  this  incomprehensible  talk,  with  wide-open, 
blue  eyes  of  wonder. 

**  My  pretty,  rosy-cheeked  baby,  do  you  think  auntie  has 
taken  leave  of  her  senses?  Never  mind,  nurse  shall  get  us 
some  tea,  and  we  won't  talk  any  more  about  these  disagreea- 
ble things.  Wo  are  going  to  bo  just  as  blithe  as  the  birds  for 
the  next  three  days,  little  Laura.** 

And  the  girl  kept  her  word.  No  blither  creature  ever  lived 
on  earth  than  Magdalen,  when  the  great  trouble  of  her  life 
could  be  shut  down  deep  in  her  heart— so  deep  that  no  shadow 
rose  to  the  surface.  She  rambied  with  little  Laura  over  hills 
fuid  fields,  and  through  the  woods;  she  fed  the  chickens  and 


74 


MAGDALEN'S   VOW. 


dressed  her  dolls,  and  made  up  astoDishiDg  little  romanoes  for 
her  delectation,  and  Vi^s  almost  as  merry  and  a?  r.  uci  ol  a 
child  as  Lan.    he      f. 

Anu  so  th  llv.-.9  Uf.ys*  grace  expired,  and  Magdalen  was 
going  horn  — jf^«.  (i  *den  Willows  was  home  now — never  to 
come  back  to  the  old  b    \estead  as  Magdalen  All  ward. 

**  You  will  come  and  see  me  married,  Rachel?''  she  said, 
wistfully,  holding  out  her  hand  to  say  good-bye. 

**  I  don't  know,  my  dear;  it's  a  long  way,  and  I'm  not  used 
to  traveling.    Then  here  is  little  Laura.    Oh,  I  don't  knowl" 

**  But  I  should  like  it  so  much,  Rachel." 

Still  Rachel  shook  her  head. 

**  1  don't  know,  my  dear.  1  should  like  it  myself,  but  1 
can't  promise.  Still  I'll  try.  The  last  Thursday  in  October, 
you  say?" 

**  Yes;  do  try;  it  will  i  ike  me  doubly  happy.  Good-bye, 
uarsey — good-bye,  Laura!  Auntie  will  fetch  her  little  girl 
something  wonderfully  handsome  next  time." 

So  Magdalen  departed,  and  went  back  to  her  impatient 
lover — to  her  plighted  husband — went  back  to  find  changes. 
In  her  brief  aosence,  which  were  destined  to  postpone  her 
marriage. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

FREE  FROM   SING  SING. 

Miss  Barstone  was  very  ill — so  ill  that  she  lay  in  the 
Shadow  of  the  Valley  of  Death — and  the  lamp  burned,  and 
patient  watchers  sat  by  the  bedside  the  weary  night  through. 
Footfalls  were  hushed,  voices  were  lowered,  and  a  fearful  awe 
set  on  every  face,  as  if  their  mortal  eyes  could  see  the  dread 
death-angel  hovering  on  their  threshold. 

Magdalen  took  her  place  among  the  rest,  and  was  the  jnost 
indefatigable  and  tender  nurse  the  poor  old  maid  had. 

Long,  weary  vigils  she  kept  during  the  days  aud  nights  that 
^were  to  have  beta  filled  with  bridal  preparations,  until  her 
oheek  grew  pale  and  her  eyes  dim  In  the  dusk  of  the  sick- 
chamber. 

The  snowy  robes  of  glistening  silk,  and  airy  muslin,  and 
misty  lace,  were  put  away  for  a  more  propitious  season;  and 
October  came,  and  the  wedding-day  went,  aud  Magdalen  was 
unwedded.  No\rember,  with  its  sad,  short  days  and  lamenta- 
ble winds,  passed  drearily  away,  before  the  turning-point  in 
the  weary  illness  came,  aud  Miss  Barstone  began  slowly  to  re- 
cover* 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


75 


cr. 


■'It  18  very  hard  on  you,  my  poor  boy,"  Aunt  Lydia  said, 
one  erening,  looking  up  in  George's  tace,  which,  like  the 
rest,  bad  grown  somewhat  thin  and  care-worn  this  trying  sea- 
gon;  '*  but  you  need  not  postpone  your  wedding  much  longer, 
thank  Heaven!  Let  me  see,  this  is  December.  Suppose  you 
are  married  on  New  Year's  Day?" 

Of  course,  Mr.  Barstone  ;»ii  nly  too  transported  to  say  yes, 
and  of  course  he  said  so. 

**  Magdalen  is  the  best  vo  ixU.oes,  and  the  dearest  of  girls," 
continued  Aunt  Lydia.  >  ui  certain  if  your  future  is  not  a 
happy  one,  it  will  not  be  he .  f^ult." 

Magdalen  opened  thr  'ac*  softly  as  she  spoke,  and  came  in. 

*'  Is  she  asleep,  Geor^e^  Shall  Fanny  come  and  take  your 
place?    You  must  be  worn  out." 

**  Come  here,  my  dear,"  said  Miss  Barstone.  **  I  am  not 
asleep.  Let  me  look  at  you.  Ah,  yes,  you  have  grown  paler 
and  thinner  with  these  long  night-watches,  as  well  as  the 
rest.  You  have  been  very  good  to  poor  old  Aunt  Lydia,  and 
your  happiness  shall  not  be  postponed  an  hour  longer  than  is 
possible.  New  Year's  is  very  near  now;  you  must  make  this 
impatient  boy  the  happiest  of  husbands  on  New  Year's  Day." 

George  looked  very  pleadingly.  Magdalen  blushed,  smiled, 
and  shyly  held  out  her  hand. 

**  He  has  been  very  good — very  patient,"  said  Aunt  Lydia, 
**  and  he  has  earned  his  sugar-plums,  and  shall  have  them. 
And  now,  my  children,  if  you  will  leave  me,  1  will  try  and 
sleep.  Don't  send  Fanny  up  just  yet,  Magdalen;  wait  half 
an  hour." 

The  lovers  departed,  and  went  down-stairs.  George's  sap- 
per awaited  him  in  the  dining-room.  The  girls  had  had  theirs 
while  he  kept  watch  in  the  sick-room. 

'*  1  believe  I'll  take  a  walk  in  the  garden,  while  you  eat 
your  supper,  George,"  Magdalen  said.  **  The  night  is  love- 
ly, and  the  air  of  the  house  oppressive." 

'*  And  you  are  as  pale  as  a  spirit,  my  darling,"  George  an- 
swered, kissing  the  white  cheek.  **  Go  and  see  if  this  icy  De- 
cember wind  will  not  bring  back  your  lost  roses." 

**  They  never  were  very  bright,"  Magdalen  said,  laughing- 
ly, as  she  threw  a  shawl  carelessly  over  her  head  and  went  out. 

The  winter  night  was  indescribably  bright  and  beautiful. 
Up  in  a  sky  of  cloudless  blue  sailed  the  Christmas  moon, 
crystal  clear,  silver  bright,  with  countless  sparkling  frosty 
stars.  No  wird  stirred  the  leafless  trees,  and  the  snowy 
ground  glittered,  and  acintillated,  and  flashed  back  the  shim- 
mering Taster  above.  » 


r 


¥ 


'' 


76 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


•*  And,  oh,  how  lovely  it  all  is!"  cried  Maffdalen,  drawmi; 
a  loDg,  free  breath.  '*  Sweet  and  sereae  as  Men  itself!  A 
ftury  earth  under  a  magic  sky!*' 

She  ran  down  the  steps  and  entered  the  willow  walk.  As 
she  did  so,  the  gato-Iatch  sharply  clicked.  She  glanced  over 
her  shoulder,  and  saw  a  man  come  in. 

Magdalen  paused. 

The  man  paused,  too,  at  the  gate,  and  snrveyed  the  lighted 
front  of  the  house  with  a  strange,  irresolute,  hesitating  man- 
ner. Then  he  walked  up  the  path,  slowly  and  hesitatingly, 
and  stopping  often. 

**  What  can  that  man  want?"  thought  Magdalen.  **  He 
acts  suspiciously.     TU  speak  to  him." 

Quite  fearless  for  herself,  the  young  girl  stepped  out  from 
the  black  shadow  of  the  trees,  and  stood  clearly  revealed  in 
the  moonlight. 

The  man  saw  her,  and  advanced  at  once.    As  he  drew  near, 
Magdalen  saw  he  was  under-sized,  and  slender,  and  boyish, 
and  shabby.     For  his  face — his  coat-collar  was  so  turned  up, 
.  and  his  cloth  cap  so  pulled  down,  that  it  was  effectually  con- 
cealed. 

"  This  place  is  Golden  Willows?"  the  suspicious  stranger 
began,  inquiringly,  touching  his  cap  to  the  lady  with  the 
shawl  over  her  head. 

Magdalen  gave  a'^wild  start.  That  voice!  Surely,  she 
knew  that  voice. 

**  Yes,"  she  said,  her  eyes  dilating,  **  this  is  Golden  Wil- 
lows. " 

*•  And  there  is  a  young  lady — a  governess — a  Miss  Wayne 
living  here?" 

**  I  am  the  governess,"  Magdalen  said,  in  a  hushed,  tear-^ 
ful  voice,  **  and  you  are — " 

**  Look!" 

He  lifted  the  cloth  cap,  turned  down  the  coat-collar,  and 
displayed  a  boyish  face  in  the  wan  moonlight,  haggard  and 
hollow-eyed,  but  handsome  still. 

Magdalen  gave  a  great  cry  and  a  recoil. 

**  Willie— Willie!     My  brother!" 

And  then  the  shabby  and  suspicious  stranger  was  caught  in 
Miss  Wayne's  arms  in  a  clasp  as  strong  and  lasting  as  the  love 
she  bore  him. 

"Willie!  Willie!  Willie!" 

It  was  all  she  could  cry  between  her  raining  tears  and  kisses, 
holding  him  as  if  she  would  never  let  him  go. 

WilUe  Allwarj  rather  endured  than  returned  his  sister's 


MAGDALEN'S   TOW. 


77 


(< 


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ti 


«t 


otresset.  His  sharp  and  haggard  face  looked  sullen  and  over- 
cast,  even  in  this  first  moment  of  meeting,  after  more  than 
four  years. 

*'  Oh^  Willie^  what  a  surnrise  this  is — what  a  surprise  this 
isl  To  think  tiiat  I  shouia  ever  see  you  again,  my  darling, 
darling  brother!" 

**  Then  you  are  glad  to  see  me,  Magdalen?"  said  the  youns 
fellow,  kissing  her  at  last.  *'  The  old  woman  said  you  woula 
be,  but  I'll  be  blowed  if  I  believed  her." 

**  The  old  woman  I  Do  you  mean  Rachel?  Have  you  been 
home?" 

**  To  be  sure  I  have.  How  else  should  I  know  where  to 
find  you?  And  so  this  is  your  home  now?"  jerkiug  his  thumb 
over  his  shoulder  toward  the  house,  **  and  you're  a  govern- 
ess, Mag?    How  do  you  like  it?" 

Very  well." 

They're  good  to  you,  are  they?" 

Very  good,  Willie. "      ' 

And  you're  going  to  be  married,  old  Bachel  says.  It 
seems  funny — little  Magdalen  going  to  be  married!  What  is 
the  chap's  name?" 

**  George  Barstone — the  best  man  I  ever  knew,  Willie." 
**  Oh,  he  is?  I'm  glad  to  hear  that,  because  I  thought  you 
mifiht  be  making  a  botch  of  it,  like  Laura,"  Willie  Allward 
said,  with  a  harsh,  strident  laugh.  **  Pretty  affair  that,  wasn't 
it?  She's  dead  and  buried  now,  and  the  little  one  is  her  very 
image — not  the  least  like  its  handsome  papa." 

**  Willie — Willie!  how  bitterly  you  talk — how  strangely  you 
have  changed!" 

**  For  the  better,  eh?  Where's  the  Willie  in  the  varnished 
boots,  and  superfine  dress-coats,  and  gold  studs,  and  number 
seven  French  kids,  you  used  to  know,  I  wonder?  This  fellow 
here,"  looking  down  at  himself,  **  in  the  ron^b  brogans,  and 
threadbare  trousers,  and  greasy,  out-at-elbaws  coat,  isn't 
much  like  him,  is  he?  But,  then,  we  don't  come  home  from 
the  college  1  have  just  graduated  at  in  the  height  of  the 
style."  He  laughed — a  sharp,  mirthless  laugh,  that  made 
Magdalen  shiver. 

**  It's  only  one  more  item  down  in  the  long  account  I've 
got  to  settle  with  my  friend  Maurice  Langley  when  I  meet 
him.  Don't  wear  that  white,  scared  face,  my  lassie.  We 
won't  talk  about  it,  if  you  like.  Let's  look  at  you.  Why, 
you've  grown  a  hatidsomi^  girl,  Mag.lalen — handsomer  than 
ever  Laura  was,  though  you're  like  her,  too." 


9> 


rs 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


^4« 


Msffdalen  put  her  arm  through  her  brother's  and  drew  him 
into  the  willow  walk. 

"  Come  this  way,  Willie^  1  don't  want  any  one  to  see  us, 
and  you  would  hardly  oare  to  come  \n,  1  suppose?"  hesitat- 
inely,  looking  at  him. 

Hardly,  in  this  trim.  Don't  be  afraid  of  hurting  my 
feelings  by  plain  speaking,  my  dear  girl.  1  have  not  been 
used  to  that  sort  of  thing,  you  know,  for  the  past  four  years. 
I  didn't  want  to  go  in,  and  I  didn't  mean  to  disgrace  you. 
As  you  are  the  only  member  of  tlio  family  who  has  not  turned 
out  rather  disreputably,  the  least  I  can  do  is  to  let  you  keep 
up  the  family  credit.  In  fact,  1  was  rather  doubtful  about 
comins  near  you  at  all;  but  the  old  dame  insisted  on  it  so 
BtrongTy,  and  as  1  had  a  hankering  that  way  myself — " 

^*WillieI"  Magdalen  broke  out,  passionately,  **do  you 
think  it  necessary  to  apologize  to  me  for  coming  to  see  me? 
If  you  had  not,  .1  should  never  have  forgiven  you!  Are  we 
not  brother  and  sister?  Do  we  not  stand  alone  in  the  world 
now?  Are  we  not  bound  together  by  one  common  cause?  It 
would  have  been  a  worse  deed — a  baser  and  more  cruel  act— 
than  any  vou  have  yet  committed,  if  you  had  not  come  to  see 
me  now.'' 

The  lad  looked  at  her,  astonished  at  her  unlooked-for  wel- 
come outburst. 

**  By  George!  how  you  go  it!  Well,  as  you  look  at  it  in 
that  light,  I  am  glad  myself  I  have  come.  But  some  girls, 
you  know,  Magdalen,  respectable  themselves,  and  going  to  be 
married  to  a  respectable  man,  wouldn't  exactly  care  to  have  a 
convicted  forger,  who  has  just  served  out  his  four  years  at  Sing 
Sing,  call  upon  them,  even  though  that  convicted  forger 
chanced  to  be  their  brother." 

**  Then  I'm  not  one  of  those  respectable  girls,"  said  Magda- 
len, shortly.  **  Don't  let  us  waste  time  bandying  words,  for 
1  oan.not  stay  out  long  without  being  missed.  What  are  you 
goinfi  to  do  now?" 

**For  a  living,  do  you  mean?    Sweep  crossings,  carry  a 
hod,  beg,  borrow,  steal,  so  that  I  can  ^t  enough  to  hold  soul 
and  body  together.     No,  by  the  bye,  not  steal ;  it  won't  do  to 
get  in  the  stone  jug  again.     Oh,  I'll  do,  never  fear!" 
'  Where  are  you  going?" 

To  New  York — to  hunt  up  a  friend  of  mine  there." 
Maurice  Langley,  do  you  mean?" 

Precisely — Mr.  Maurice  Laugley.  I've  a  score  to  settle 
with  that  gentleman — a  long-standing  debt,  with  compound 
interest     My  consoionoc  .vom'^,  bo  easy  until  I  pay  it." 


»« 


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"Willie/'  Magdalen  aaid,  looking  oar  neatly, '*  what  are 
you  going  to  do?" 

**  Settle  old  soores,  my  girl — deep  and  deadly  scoresl  No, 
no,  Mugdalenl"  laughing  liarshly  at  the  colorless  fnoe,  **  not 
commit  a  murder.  I  won't  stab,  or  shoot,  or  poison  Maurice 
Langiey — that's  a  hanging  matter,  you  see.  Til  only  pufc 
him  where  I  came  from— Sing  Sing,  and  hard  labor  for  the 
best  years  of  his  natural  life."  / 

Some  of  the  fierce  fire  smoldering  duskly  in  the  returned 
convict's  eyes  lighted  up  suddenly  those  of  Magdalen. 

**  Willie,  can  you  do  it?    Can  you?" 

**  1  can,  and  I  will.  Don't  you  be  afraid,  Magdalen;  I'll 
make  Maurice  Langley  curse  the  day  he  ever  met  me  as  bit- 
terly as  he  has  made  me  curse  it!  I'll  find  him  if  he  is  above 
ground — if  the  devil  has  not  been  before  me,  and  come  for  bis 
own!" 

**  That's  my  brave  brother!  Oh,  if  I  were  only  a  man  I  I 
would  leave  all,  and  go  with  you,  heart  and  soul,  this  mo- 
ment. I  would  never  rest  on  the  same  earth  with  Laura's  de- 
stroyer." 

"  Halloo!"  cried  Willie,  astonished;  **  that's  how  you  feel, 
is  it?      Don't  you  be  afraid  of  my  letting  him  escape.     The 
fox  runs  long,  but  is  caught  by  the  tail  at  la^t.    I'll  find  him, 
never  fear.     Let  him  hide  where  he  may  choose,  I  would 
know  Maurice  Langley's  hide  on  a  bush.     Oh,  my  little  girl/ 
State  Prison  for  a  chap  to  finish  his  education!    I  went  in  a 
lamb,  comparatively  speaking,  and  I  have  come. out  a  tiger; 
but  that's  enough  about  it.     I  don't  want  to  make  a  tigreaa 
of  you,  and  I  won*t  keep  you  here  in  the  cold  any  longer.  > 
I've  seen  you,  and  that's  enough.     You're  well  and  happy,  \ 
and  I'm  glad  of  it.     Be  a  good  wt>mc*n,  Magdalen,  if  you  can,  \ 
and  make  your  husband  happ} .  and  leave  Maurice  Langley,     ' 
and  plotting,  and  vengeance  iu  ne." 

"I'll  aid  you  if  ever  I  have  the  povfer/' said  Magdalen^ 
resolutely;  "  aud  as  a  beginning,  you  must  let  me  keep  you 
in  funds.  You  can't  sweep  crossings,  or  carry  hods,  and  you 
know  it,  and  you  have  no  one  to  borrow  of  but  me.  Here  ia 
my  purse — there  are  fifty  dollars;  enough  for  this  month. 
When  you  get  to  New  York,  write  to  me — 1  will  send  you 
more;  or,  no,  write  to  Rachel.  Your  letiier  can  come  under 
cover  from  her.  Mr.  Barstone  is  very,  very  kind  and  good; 
but,  just  because  ho  is  so  kind  and  good,  it  hurts  him  to  think 
anyone  l^longing  to  me  should  be  otherwise.  The  less  he 
hears  of  Ay  family  affairs,  the  happier  he  will  feel;  and  this 
Bort  of  concealment  does  blm  no  injury.     Yon  understand?", 


r/ 


90 


MiaUALEN^S   VOW. 


*•  All  right,"  said  Willie,  boyishly,  pocketing  the  parse. 
"And  DOW,  good-bye,  Magdalen.  You  look  half  frozen. 
Thonsand  thanks  for  the  money,  and  a  merry  Christmas  to 
yon  and  a  happy  New  Year,  and  many  of  'em.  Shake 
hands." 

'*  You  will  write  very  soon,  Willie,  and  very,  very  often,? 
You  know  how  anxious  I  shall  be." 

**  Yes,  I  will  write.  Don't  you  tell  Mr.  Barstone— isn't 
that  the  name? — about  this  visit;  it  will  be  of  no  use.  The 
less  said  about  me  the  better.  I'm  going  to  take  some  other 
name,  and  disguise  myself  with  whiskers  and  wig,  and  begin 
my  search  for  Laogley  at  once,  if  he  is  alive,  he  is  in  New 
York,  and  it  he  is  in  New  York  I'll  find  him.     Good-bye  I" 

**  Good-bye!"  Magdalen  said. 

And  then,  giving  her  hand  a  parting  wring,  Willie  Allward 
slouched  his  hat  over  his  eyes,  turned  up  his  collar,  plunged 
down  the  willow  walk,  and  was  gone. 

Magdalen  stood  still  where  Willie  had  left  her,  listening  to 
his  footsteps  ringing  sharply  on  the  frozen  ground,  and  feel- 
ins  as  though  she  were  in  a  dream 

The  icy  wind,  as  the  nigiit  wore  on,  roused  her  to  the  con- 
sciousness thee  she  had  been  a  long  time  out,  and  that  they 
would  wonder  what  detained  her. 

Slowly  she  turned  tor/ard  the  house.  As  she  emerged  from 
the  trees  and  looked  up  at  the  windows,  she  saw  Fanny  stand- 
mg  in  the  bedrocm  l^^oking  out.  There  was-  no  light  in  her 
chamber,  and  Magdalen  saw  her  distinctly. 

**  And  she"  could  see  by  this  moonlight,"  Magdalen  thought, 
**  if  she  were  up  there.     I  hope  she  has  not  seen  Willie. " 

But  Fanny  had  seen  Willie,  and  was  in  a  state  of  wonder- 
ment and  shocked  surprise  not  to  bo  described. 

She  had  seen  the  first  meeting  of  the  brother  and  sister-— 
leen  Magdalen  fall  upon  the  neck  of  the  unknown  man  and 
kiss  him  over  and  over  again. 

**  G-o-o-o-o-o-d  graoioua!"  cried  Miss  Winters,  mentdly 
prolonging  the  first  word  of  the  ejaculation  indefinitely  in 
her  amazement;  **can  I  believe  my  eyes?  Yes,  I  can!  and 
there's  Magdalen  Wayne  kit»ai ng  and  hugging  a  strange  man 
down  under  the  trees,  and  George  taking  his  supper  in  the 
dining-room.  Ifc  isn't  George,  that's  certain,  and  I  should 
think  Magdalen  hadn't  ought  to  kiss  any  other  man.  When 
a  person's  engaged  to  a  person,"  luriscd  the  young  lady, 
vaguely,  **  I  should  think  thoy  hadn't  ought  to  kiss  any  other 
person.  Aunt  Lydi»  is  forever  holding  Magdaieii  up  as  a 
burning  and  shining  light  for  me  to  imitate^  and  she  says  I'm 


' 


N 


7?ywyfi^»^^Wy^^w!m 


MAGDALEN'S   TOW. 


81 


■  r 


\ 


friroloQfl,  but  1  don't  believe  1  would  go  and  act  like  tbat.  II 
I  was  going  to  be  married  to  Phil  in  a  month,  I'm  very  cer- 
tain I  wouldn't  meet  other  men  in  the  grounds,  by  night  and 
by  stealth;  and  kiss  them,"  concluded  Fanny,  with  an  evi- 
dent sense  of  injury. 

The. young  lady  lingered  by  the  windovf  after  Magdal*^n  and 
the  strange  man  had  disappeared  down  the  willow  walk,  gaz- 
ing pensively  at  the  moonlight  and  waiting. 

She  was  kepi;  waiting  half  an  hour,  and  was  beginning  to 
grow  rather  impatiint,  when  the  twain  in  the  garden  came 
out  in  the  moonlight,  and  lingered  an  instant,  with  clasped 
hands,  before  parting. 

The  man  dashed  off  toward  the  gate  at  a  swinging  pace, 
and  Miss  Wayne  turned  slowly  up  to  the  house. 

*•  Who  can  it  be?"  mused  Fanny.  *'  If  it  were  a  father, 
or  a  brother,  or  a  first  cousin,  even,  it  wouldn't  be  so  much 
harm;  although,  I  dare  say,  George  might  object  to  a  first 
oousiu.  But  Magdalen  has  no  relations  whatever,  except  an 
old  nurse  and  a  little  niece,  that  ever  I  heard  her  speak 
about;  then  I  wonder  who  that  man  can  be?  It's  very  odd; 
but  I  suppose  she'll  explain  it  when  she  comes  in." 

Fanny  descended  at  once,  and  encountered  her  governess  in 
the  lower  hall.  Miss  Wayne  looked  very  pale  and  subdued — 
othorwise  there  was  no  change. 

George  came  out  of  the  dining-room  at  the  same  moment, 
cigar  1n  mouth,  book  in  hand. 

**  Fanny,  are  you  here  yet?  I  thought  I  told  you  half  an 
hour  ago  you  were  wanted  in  the  sick-room.  Magdalen,  I 
began  to  think  you  were  lost.  Why  did  you  linger  so?  Yon 
look  pale  and  half  frozen." 

**  Now!"  thought  Fanny. 

And  she  held  her  breath  for  the  answer.  But  Magdalen, 
with  a  lit^.le  shiver,  turned  tf^  go  upstairs,  with  a  very  evasive 
and  unsatisfactory  reply: 

**  I  am  cold  and  a  little  worn  out,  I  believe,  I  shall  go  to 
my  room  and  lie  down.  Fanny,  if  you  sit  up  until  midnight 
ril  relieve  you  then.     Good-night,  George," 

She  ran  lightly  upstairs,  and  vanished  into  her  own  room. 

George  went  back,  a  little  disappointed,  to  his  book  and 
cigar,  and  Miss  Winters,  very  slowly  and  with  a  preternatur- 
ally  solemn  face,  wended  her  wuy  to  tho  sick-room. 

^*  It's  a  secret,"  thought  Fanny — "  the  only  secret  I  ever 
had  to  keep  in  my  life,  and  sho  doesn't  know  I  know  it.  She 
isn't  going  to  toll  George;  and  1  shouldn't  wotider  if  it  were 
iome  youthful  lover  come  back  to  upbraid  her  lor  her  perfidy. 


8d 


MAGDALElj'S   VOW. 


I  ought  to  tell  somebody,  because  it's  wicked  and  romantic  of 
Magdalen  to  act  so;  but  I  don't  like  to— it  seems  mean — and 
then  I  should  hate  to  make  Magdalen  mad/' 

So  Miss  Winters,  burning  to  tell,  put  a  severe  restraint  on 
herself,  and  resolved  to  oner  up  her  inclination  on  the  altar 
of  friendship,  and  keep  Magdalen's  wicked  secret. 


CHAPTER  XII. 
magdalek's  wedding-day. 

Over  an  earth  of  snow-clad  whiteness,  in  an  oriflamme  of 
crimson  glory,  sunk  the  sun  on  Magdalen's  wedding-eve. 

A  red  and  lurid  sunset — the  whole  western  sky  ablaze  with 
black  and  brassy  bars,  faring  behind  the  scarlet  splendor, 
and  lingering — prophetic  of  coming  change — when  the  burn- 
ing fires  of  sunset  had  faded  and  gone. 

The  last  sun  of  the  old  year  had  set,  burning  and  wrath- 
ful, in  a  sky  that  was  like  a  sea  of  blood;  the  last  sunset  of 
Magdalen  Allward's  maiden  life  had  dipped  behind  the  piiae 
woods  and  vanished,  leaving  that  lurid,  ominous  blaze  be- 
hind, forerunner  of  a  coming  storm. 

Magdalen  Allward  stood  by  the  drawing-room  window, 
looking  out  at  the  gorgeous  glory  of  that  setting  sun. 

White  and  high  lay  piled  the  snow-drifts,  this  bitter  Ngw 
Year's  Eve;  icy  and  wild  blew  the  long,  wailing  blasts;  gaunt 
and  bar^  rattled  the  skeleton  arms  of  the  trees  around  Golden 
Willows.  A  dead  world  lying  in  its  shroud— dreariness  and 
desolation,  and  the  coldness  of  the  grave,  everywhere — that 
was  what  the  bride-elect  stood  looking  at  on  her  bridal-eve. 

She  was  quite  alone  in  the  drawing-room — the  pretty, 
dainty  drawing-room  of  Golden  Willows.  A  new  carpet,  soft 
and  rich,  covered  the  floor;  dainty  new  draperies  shaded  the 
windows;  elegant  new  furniture  gleamed  and  glittered,  in  all 
the  glory  of  French  polish,  in  the  light  of  the  sparkling  coal 
fire. 

There  wore  festoons  of  evergreens  and  brilliant  scarlet  berries 
over  the  door-ways  and  windosvs,  unfiided  since  the  Christ- 
mas festivities. 

Magdalen  stood  in  one  of  these  green  arches,  in  a  floating 
robe  of  pearl-nolored  crepe,  that  was  shot  with  rosy  gleams, 
and  which  blushed  as  she  w'alked;  delicate  ribbons  and  laces 
fluttered  about  her;  a  bandeau  of  pearls — her  lover's  gift — 
shimmering  in  her  burnished  hair,  lunl  on  her  lovely,  uncov" 
ered  neck  and  arms — as  fair,  and  stately,  and  sweet  a  bride  a4 
that  setting  sun  shone  on  the  wide  world  over. 


/ 


■^^J 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


83 


The  last  little  pink  cloud  of  that  tropical  splendor  in  the 
western  sky  faded  and  died  oat,  and  slowly  the  dull,  creeping 
grayness  of  early  night  darkened  down  like  a  pall.  Out  of 
the  cold,  sombdr  arch  shone,  steel-blue  and  sparkling,  the 
frosty  December  stars;  for  the  late-rising  moon  would  not  be 
here  for  hours  to  light  the  snowy  world. 

Slowly  the  darkness  crept  up  over  the  hills,  and  the  tree-tops, 
and  the  broad  wide  fields;  mournfully  wailed  the  winter  wind 
around  the  eaves  and  gables.  The  house  was  very  still — so 
ominously  still  you  might  have  thought  it  the  eve  of  a  fun- 
eral, not  a  wed'iing. 

George  was  not  home  from  Milford,  Miss  Barstone  was 
asleep  after  her  late  dinner,  and  Fanny  was  up  in  her  room 
writiug  a  letter  to  **  Phil  *' — a  torrent  of  reproaches  for  his 
refusal  to  be  present  at  the  wedding. 

Outside  and  inside  a  solemn,  weird  hush  lay,  and  Magdalen 
shivered  in  the  genial  warmth  of  the  room,  with  a  sensation 
which  makes  people  say:  '*  Some  one  is  walking  over  my 
grave."  Her  laoe,  in  the  pallid  starlight,  was  as  colorless  as 
her  dress. 

**  What  is  it?''  Magdalen  asked  herself,  with  a  thrill  and 
shiver — "  what  is  it,  this  nameless,  numb  foreboding  of  evil 
which  is  chilling  me  to  the  very  heart's  core?  If  1  am  ever 
to  be  utterly  blessed,  surely  now  is  the  time;  to-morrow  is  my 
wedding-day— my  happy  wedding-day.  And  yet  I  have  had 
this  dark  presentiment  of  impending  -jvil  all  day.  Surely 
nothing  is  going  to  separate  me  from  George — surely  nothing 
can  have  happened  to  Willie!" 

With  the  thought  yet  in  her  head  she  heard  the  outer  gate 
sharply  unlatch,  and  heard  a  man's  step  on  the  frosty  ground. 

Another  instant  and  George  came  in  sight,  walking  rapidly 
— another,  and  the  hall-door  had  opened  and  he  was  stamp- 
ing the  snow  off  his  boots,  and  talking  cheerily  in  the  hall. 

"  Silence  and  solitude — darkness  and  dismalness!  Here, 
Jane — Susan!  where  are  you  all?  Come,  one  of  you,  and 
light  up!    Let's  see  who's  here!" 

He  opened  the  door  of  the  drawing-room,  and  saw  in  the 
leaping  fire-light  thu  tall,  white  figure,  with  the  shimmering 
pearls  and  bright-gold  hair,  by  the  windov/. 

**  Alone,  my  dearest?"  Goorge  said,  with  a  most  lover-like 
embrace;  **  and  with,  oh,  such  a  mournful  face,  my  solemn 
Magdalen!  Come,  I'vo  g^t  somothijig  for  you  that,  perhans, 
will  cheer  you  up,  even  ou  the  melancholy  eve  ol  ^our  \  ri- 
ding." 


84 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


S^ 


t 


Mr.  Baretone  prodaced  a  letter^  in  a  buff  envelope,  and 
flouriahed  it  before  ber  eyes. 

**  As  tbe  writing  is  of  a  particularly  hilly  character^  and  as 
you  bave  but  one  correspondent,  I  suppose  I  may  safely  set  it 
down  as  from  old  nurse  Kachel.  Here,  take  and  read  it,  and 
let  us  see  if  it  can  charm  away  your  dolefulness." 

He  tossed  her  the  letter,  and  walked  over  to  the  fire,  whis- 
tling. 

Magdalen  tore  it  open,  and  barely  suppressed  a  cry  to  see 
inclosed  a  tiny  note  irom  Willie — a  very  tiny  npte,  indeed, 
with  only  these  words: 

"DearM., — I  suppose  you  will  want  to  hear  from  me, 
even  if  1  have  no  news  to  tell.  Well,  1  have  no  news,  and 
here  l^am,  like  the  beat  of  brothers,  dropping  you  a  line.  I 
am  all  right  myself,  trying  night  and  day  to  find  a  clew  to  the 
man  I  want.  He  hasn't  turned  up  yet,  but  he  will  one  day, 
and,  when  he  does,  I  hold  him  in  the  hollow  of  my  band. 
You  don't  understand?  !No  matter.  I  will  be  more  explicit 
another  time. 

**  Take  care  of  yourself,  and  Til  take  care  of 

**  Willie." 

There  waa  an  address  at  the  end — some  low  place  at  the 
east  side — to  which  she  was  to  write. 

Magdalen  crumpled  the  note  up  and  thrust  it  into  the 
pocket  of  her  dress,  and  glanced  over  the  other  epistle. 

It  was  of  the  shortest  also — writing  being  uphill  work  to 
poor  old  Rachel — but  it  told  Magdalen  she  and  little  Laura 
were  well  — 

*  We  ire  both  much  obliged  to  you  for  our  new  clothes," 
rw»e  nurse  Rachel,  **  and  if  we  cau  we'll  come  to  the  wed- 

iiiig  «  n  >iow  Year'i  Day.     I  want  very  much  indeed  tc  see 
v<y  UvirBiiUg  abusliiind;  but  I  don't  s&y  I'll  come  for  certain." 

itt  prdiiler*  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief  as  she  folded  up  the 
!*^ttui\ 

V'ii'i^,  and  nurse,  and  Laura  were  all  well,  then;  and 
Georgo  was  yonder,  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  whistling  and 
waiti+ig,  with  the  happiest  face  man  ever  wore. 

Surely  presentiments  were  foolish  things — surely  she  waa 
the  silliest  and  most  suspieiousj  not  to  say  riiost  wicked  of 
creature^,  to  tempt  Providence  by  these  doubts  of  His  good- 
ness. 

**  Oh,"  she  thought,  looking  up  at  the  lorely,  starlit  sky, 

how  much  1  have  to  be  thankful  for!    What  a  grateful. 


«» 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


85 


I 


happy  heart  1  should  have  this  night!  What  am  I  that  hleaa- 
inffs  should  be  heaped  upon  me— that  I  should  marry  the  man 
1  love  and-  honor — that  1  should  have  a  happy  home,  and 
hosts  of  kindest  friends— while  so  many  in  this  great  world 
suffer  life-long  martyrdom?" 

**  My  mournful  Magdalenl"  said  George  Barstone,  coming 
over,  **  what  a  white,  sorrowful  face  you  wear.  You  are  as 
colorless  and  spectral  as  your  dress. 

"  *  Oh,  rare,  pale  Margaret! 
Oh,  fair,  pale  Margaret!' 

My  dearest,  tell  me  what  it  all  means?'' 

"  Nothing,  George;  but  I  am  so  happy!" 

**  A  novel  reason  for  wearing  a  heart-broken  face.     1  had 
begun  to  think  you  were  repenting  at  the  eleventh  aour." 
I  shall  never  repent.    1  wonder  if  you  ever  will,  George?" 

Her  thoughts  went  back  to  the  great  trouble  of  her  hie — 
to  that  solemn  vow  she  had  taken  upon  herself.  W  uld  it 
ever  come  between  them,  to  darken  their  married  live^  ? 

**  No  doubt  1  shall,"  Mr.  Barstone  said,  thoi.ghtfully 
stroking  his  whiskers.  *'  I'm  onl^  mortal,  and  do  more  proof 
against  Caudle  lectures  than  tb  sat  of  my  btoihrcn.  I  Lu- 
lieve  big  fellows  like  me  were  ade  to  be  heni:^< '.ed,  and 
snubbed,  and  tyrannized  over  bject  cringers  to  petticoat 
government.  I  don't  pretent 
very  likely  I  shall  repent;  bu 
periment  all  the  same." 

Magdalen  smiled,  but  she  a  so  smothered  a  little  pang. 
She  ought  to  tell  him  about  Willie,  she  thought.  It  was 
wrong  even  to  have  that  secret  from  him.  And  then  Fanny 
knew.  She  was  certain  Fanny  had  seen  that  nocturnal  meet- 
ing, from  innumerable  hints,  and  was  actually  dying  of  curi- 
osity to  know  whom  the  strangf^r  was. 

**  If  I  tell  her,  I  must  teU  George,"  Magdalen  thought; 
**  and,  poor  fellow,  that  great,  good  heart  of  his  is  sensitive 
where  Tarn  concerned.  1  should  like  to  spare  him  if  I  could. 
It's  no  pleasant  thing  to  hear  that  the  convict  brother  of  the 
wife  he  ioves  comes  creeping  here,  like  a  thief  in  the  night, 
afraid  to  show  his  face  in  open  day.  No,  I  will  spare  hira 
this,  and  trust  to  Fanny's  discretion.  ' 

As  if  her  thought  had  evoked  her,  the  door  was  flung  im- 
petuously open,  and  Miss  Winters,  with  a  mighty  swishing  of 
silk,  entered  the  room. 

**  It's  my  *  Mooniiglit-on-tlie-Lake,'  "  burst  forth  the  youttg 
lady,  flirting  out  her  tiounoea  with  both  hands;  **  my  *  koon- 


o 


be  better  than  the  mnt, 
i'il  try  the  matrimonial  ex- 


I '' 


86 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


ligfat-on-the-Lake/  Magdalen,  that  the  dress-maker  has  just 
broaght  home.  It  fits — lovely;  and  the  train's  a  yard  and 
three  quarters  long,  and  these  puffings  of  tulle  on  corsage  and 
shoulder-straps  are  perfectly  delicious.  It's  the  new  color, 
George,  you  knov^.  Isn't  it  the  sveeetest  thing  you  ever  savr 
in  your  life?" 

Humph!  Very  likely  it  is,  to  a  soul  capable  of  appre- 
oiating  its  beauties.  It's  rather  a  wishy-washy  affair  in  my 
eBtimation.     Whore's  the  neck  and  sleeves?" 

**  Neck  and  sleeves'."  retorted  Fanny,  with  unutterable 
scorn.  **  Who  ever  heard  of  neck  and  sleeves  in  a  ball-dress, 
stupid.'^  The  corsage  isn't  too  low,  is  it,  Magdalen?  Aunfc 
Lyaia  says  it  is;  but  then,  Aunt  Lydia's  notions  are  old-fash- 
ioned. Why  on  earth  don't  you  ring  for  lights,  George?" 
said  Miss  V/inters,  flinging  herself  in  a  low  chair,  her  **  Moon- 
light-on-the-Lake  ''  ballooning  splendidly  around  her.  '*  En- 
gaged people  are,  for  all  the  world,  like  bats  and  owls,  eter- 
nally mooning  in  the  dark.  How  sweet  your  new  pearls  look, 
Magdalen!  consider  it  very  shabby  on  George's  part  not  to 
have  ordered  me  a  set  at  the  same  time.  I  dropped  Phil  a 
hint,  too,  and  all  I  got  for  it  was  a  rubbishy,  trumpery  gar- 
net ring." 

**  Phil  has  no  money  to  spare  for  gimcracks,  Fanny," 
George  said,  gravely,  as  he  rang  for  lights.  **  He  is  but  Mas- 
terson's  assistant;  and  then  there  are  debts  contracted  some 
years  ago  " — with  some  hesitation—'*  which  he  is  honorably 
trying  to  pay  off.  Poor  Phil  has  to  work  hard — so  hard  that 
he  can  not  spare  time  to  run  down  for  the  wedding,  now  that 
Masterson  is  laid  up. " 

*'  Laid  up!"  repeated  Fanny,  scornfully.  **  1  don't  be- 
lieve he's  laid  up.  It's  either  pure  aggravation  on  his  part 
or  laziness  on  Phil's.  Don't  tell  me,  George  Barstone.  1 
know  better.  It's  my  usual  luck.  I  nevei'  set  my  heart  on 
anything  yet  that — " 

**  Please,  ma'am,  tea's  ready,"  interrupted  a  smiling  little 
maiden,  popping  her  head  in;  *'  and  Miss  Barstone,  she's 
a- waiting. " 

Fanny  bounced  up  at  once,  forgettfng  her  grievances  in  the 
cravings  of  her  appetite,  five  hours  old,  and  led  the  way  to 
the  dining-room., 

Miss  Barstone  had  bo^n  conveyed  down-stairs,  to  do  honor 
to  this  festal  occasion,  and  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table. 

**  For  the  last  lime,  my  dear,"  she  said,  smilingly,  looking 
at  Magdalen.  *'  To-morrow,  and  for  tho  rest  of  your  happy 
UIq,  you  will  take  my  place  as  mistress  of  Golden  Willowu. 


W^-'-^i^t'il^-"  -1^-''  »'"  ■»•■:-.,  ' 


MAor)ATj;N*s  vow. 


87 


**  Unless  somothing  should  turn  up  between  this  and  to- 


•vmg-knivos.  My  talking  about  it  won't 
make  it  happen,  will  it?  And  a  marriage  once  postponed  is 
never  lucky,  and  this  marriage  was  to  have  taken  place  two 
months  ago.  Just  suppose  now,  for  instance,  when  Magda- 
len's in  the  church,  and  the  minister's  saying,  *  If  anybody 
here  present  knows  anything  to  prevent  "this  marriage,  let 
them  come  forward  and  declare  it,  or  forever  after  hold  their 
peace  I'  And  suppose  some  former  lover — you  must  have  had' 
lovers,  you  know,  Magds'vii— should  step  out  from  behind  a 
mllar,  and  cry,  in  a  det-^  bass,  *  Hold!  1  forbid  the  bans!' 
Wouldn't  it  be  just  like  a  chapter  in  a  novel,  now?" 

Fanny  looked  across  the  table  with  eager  eyes  as  she 
launched  this  poisoned  arrow  at  Magdalen's  guilty  breast. 

**  That  will  smite  her  in  a  vital  place!"  thought  Miss  Bar- 
etone's  lively  ward;  **  and  she'll  blush  and  betray  herself." 

But,  to  Miss  Winters'  disappointment,  Magdalen  only 
laughed,  while  George  scowled  blackly. 

**  I  wish  to  Heaven  you  were  a  chapter  in  a  novel.  Miss 
Winters,  so  that  1  might  deposit  you  in  the  fire.  If  you  can 
not  choose  a  more  agreeable  topic,  be  kind  enough  to  hold 
your  tongue." 

Fanny  sighed  resignedly,  and  held  it— for  two  seconds  and 
a  half. 

**  George  must  know  all  about  it,"  she  thought,  regretful- 
ly, **  or  she'd  never  look  so  indifiEerent.  It  must  have  been  a 
first  cousin,  too  poor  to  be  brought  in,  and  she's  told  George 
all  about  it." 

Supper  over,  George  wheeled  Aunt  Lydia  into  the  drawing- 
room;  but,  despite  her  cheery  presence,  conversation  flagged. 

Great  happiness  does  not  make  people  garrulous,  and  George 
and  Magdalen  sat  very  silent,  both  hearts  too  full  of  bliss  for 
words  or  smiles. 

Aunt  Lydia  did  her  best,  and  Miss  Winters*  struggles  were 
more  than  mortal;  but  still  those  long,  awful  blanks  would 
fall. 


«« 


Oh,  dear,"  cried  Fanny,  with  a  great,  irrepressible  yawn, 
'*  this  is  slow!  f  always  though  a  wedding  in  a  house  was  a 
cheerful  thing;  but  for  the  future  give  me  a  funeral — do! 
You  and  Miss  Wayne,  Mr.  Barstoiie,  are  about  as  agreeable 
company  as  two  grave-yard  slabs.     I  should  advise  eftoh  of 


-WHI  -'  k, "«.«,, 


"f^"%fSS^''^' 


S8 


MAGDALEN'S   VOW. 


you  to  retire  to  your  apartments  and  pray  for  a  more  Christiiiii 
and  conversable  frame  of  mind  on  the  morrow." 

With  which  bitter  reproach,  the  first  bride-maid  sailed  over 
to  the  piano  and  essayed  a  hornpipe.  But  the  mild  melan- 
choly of  the  occasion  had  infected  her,  and  the  hornpipe  was 
a  failure;  so,  after  a  little  preliminary  strumming,  Miss  Win- 
ters crooned  forth  a  pathetic  little  song  to  a  pathetic  little 
air: 

I. 

"  The  moon  looks  down  from  the  cloudless  skies, 

On  mountain,  vale,  and  river, 
And  a  thousand  stars,  with  pitying  eyes, 

Forever  agd  forever. 
But  never  a  light  in  the  distance  gleams; 

No  eye  looks  out  for  the  rover. 
Oh,  sweet  be  your  sleep,  love!  sweet  be  your  dreami, 

Under  the  blossoming  rlover — 

The  sweet-scented,  l^e-haunted  clover! 

n. 

**  The  birches  droop  as  they  drooped  of  old, 

O'er  the  banks  of  this  lonely  river, 
Whose  waters  roll  as  they  have  rolled. 

Forever  and  forever. 
But  never  a  light  in  the  distance  gleams; 

No  eye  looks  out  for  the  rover, 
Oh,  sweet  be  your  sleep,  love!  sweet  be  your  dreams! 

Under  the  blossoming  clover — 

The  sweet  scented,  bee-haunted  clover! 


( 


ti 


m. 

f  ■  •« 

I  note  the  flow  of  the  wearjr  years, 

Like  the  flow  of  this  flowing  river; 
But  dead  in  my  heart  are  its  hopes  and  fears, 

For«3ver  and  forever. 
But  never  a  light  in  the  distance  gleams; 

No  eye  looks  out  for  the  rover. 
Oh,  sweet  be  your  sleep,  love!  sweet  be  your  dreams. 

Under  the  b1    soming  clover — 

The  sweet-s      ted,  bee-haunted  clover!'* 

The  last  li^^erinf  :es  died  away,  and  again  that  blank 
silence  fell.  the  u.  of  a  wedding  ever  gay?  In  tha  pause 
for  breath  bt-  ween  the  excitement  of  yesterday  and  the  joy  of 
to-morrow   a  st.   nge  hush  and  awe  rests  upon  the  house. 

The  son,  ^'      stands  ^  " 

niffht  will  bi         rs  no  k 

luTand  belov<   ,    r     ling  by  the  fire,  after  to-morrow  will  be- 
long, body  and  so        o  another. 


f 


mppy  and  eager  yonder,  after  to- 
iTtr;  the  daugliter,  who  sits,  beauti- 


AvH5- 


/ii 


1- 


1- 


MAGDALEN'S   TOW. 


8t 


Fanny  was  right.  The  eve  of  a  wedding  is  hat  a  shade  lew 
melanol'oly  than  the  eve  of  a  faueral. 

Magdalen's  thoughts  had  gone  driftiof^  away,  while  Fanny 
sung,  to  Laura's  grave  *'  under  the  blossoming  clover/'  and 
that  oloud  which  darkened  her  fair  face  ever  at  her  dead  sis- 
ter's memory  lay  darkly  there  now. 

Miss  Barstone  saw  :t  and  understood.  George  saw  it  and 
wondered,  with  a  man's  impatient  pain,  that  any  one,  dead  or 
alive,  should  come  between  him  and  the  woman  he  loved. 
And  still  heroically  struggling  to  the  last,  there  clattered 
about  their  ears  Fanny's  irrepressible  chatter. 
•  **  Heaven  help  your  future  husband,  Fanny,"  said  George, 
in  the  first  pause.  *'  If  ever  mortal  man  is  to  be  pitied,  it  is 
he." 

That  loDg,  peaceful  evening — the  last  Magdalen  was  to 
Icnow  for  such  a  weary  while — how  it  taunted  her  in  those 
fitormy  coming  duysl  She  nestled  for  the  last  time  at  Miss 
Barstone's  lap,  with  a  sense  of  ineffable  rest  and  peace.  To- 
morrow i;hero  nould  be  fuss,  and  display,  and  excitement,  and 
a  crowd  of  f)eople;  this  bridal  eve  was  all  their  own — sacred 
to  themselves. 

George's  face  was  altogether  indescribable  in  its  glorified 
beatitude,  and  his  infatuated  eyes  rarely  wandered  from  that 
white-robed,  shining-haired  vision  leaning  against  his  annt's 
great  arm-chair. 

**  To  think,"  thought  Mr.  Barstone,  with  little  raptnrons 
chills  running  over  him,  *'  that  it  was  my  wife  I  advertised 
for  that  time  in  the  *  Herald  ' — my  wife  that  that  talkative 
English  woman  bored  me  talking  about — my  wife,  that  love* 
]y,  golden-haired,  grav-eyed  girl — the  most  beautiful  thing,  I 
thought  then,  and  I  think  now,  the  sun  shone  on." 

*' 1  am  Sony  Phil  is  not  to  be  here,"  Miss  Barstone  said 
once,  as  it  grew  late.  **  !No  one  else  should  have  stood  by 
your  side  on  your  wedding-day,  George.  And  now,  my  chil- 
dren, as  it  grows  late,  let  us  part  until  to-morrow.  Good- 
night, George.  Good-night,  Fanny.  Good-night,  Magdalen. 
God  bless  you  all!" 

**  I'm  sure  I  don't  expect  to  sleep  a  wmk,"  remarked 
Fanny,  at  her  own  door;  *'  and  I  don't  suppose  you  do  either. 
Magdalen.  As  for  George,"  with  a  reproachful  glance  at  thati 
culprit,  ^'  I  dare  say  he  would  sleep  JJ  it  was  the  eve  of  his 
hanging." 

**  I  daro  say  1  would,"  replied  George.  **  1  shall  make  the 
attempt  now,  at  least:  and  so  good-night,  Fan!  Good-night, 
aiagdalenl" 


90 


iiagdalen's  vow. 


i  -  •  I 


A  warm,  clinging  pressure  of  the  little  hand,  a  last  linger- 
in^  look  of  infinite  love,  a  bright,  shy  blush  on  the  exquisite, 
maidenly  f aoe^  and  then  Magdalen  was  alone  in  her  own  pretty 
room. 

It  was  almost  midnight  by  the  little  jeweled  watch  at  Mag- 
dalen's bolt. 

The  lamp  burned  low,  the  fire  glowed  bright;  a  low  rocker 
stood  temptingly  before  it,  and  through  the  lace  curtains  shone 
in  a  broad,  white  belt  of  moonlight. 

High  in  the  purple  arch  rode  the  midnight  moon,  flooding 
the  white  world  with  glory.  It  was  beautiful,  it  was  solemn 
— too  solemn,  in  its  death-like  whiteness,  and  the  bride  closed 
the  curtains  and  went  to  the  fire. 

Sitting  down  in  the  luxurious  little  rocking-chair,  with  her 
lovely  light  hair  all  falling  loose  around  her — with  the  convic- 
tion on  her  mind  that  it  was  of  no  use  going  to  bed,  for  she 
could  not  sleep — Magdalen  Allward  dropped  fast  asleep  be- 
fore the  fire;  slept  long  and  soundly  at  first — a  deep,  health- 
ful, dreamless  sleep. 

Hour  after  hour  the  **wee  sma'  hours  ayant  the  twal " 
struck  somewhere  below,  and  the  black,  wintery  dawn  was 
growing  gray  in  the  sky.  Then  Magdalen's  sleep  grew  rest- 
less; she  tossed  drearily,  drowsily,  without  waking,  and  half 
asleep,  half  awake,  dreamed. 

The  gloomy  church-yard  where  Laura  lay  was  before  her; 
the  trees,  stark^  rattling  skeletons;  the  ground  all  white  with 
snow;  a  low-lying,  leaden  sky  hanging  above  like  a  pall. 
She  could  hear  the  wailing  wind  through  the  ghostly  trees; 
she  could  feel  its  icy  breath  freezing  the  blood  in  her  veins. 
No  living  soul  was  near  her  as  she  knelt  there — alone  in  the 
dead,  white  desolation,  with  an  awful,  indefinable  horror  and 
expectation  creeping  over  her.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
grave  by  which  she  knelt  with  that  unutterable  horror  and 
expectation,  and  slowly,  slowly  the  grave  opened,  the  coffin- 
lid  raised,  and  her  father,  in  his  winding-sheet,  rose  up,  dead 
and  dreadful,  and  stood  before  her. 

Magdalen  strove  to  cry  out  in  her  sleep,  but  all  sound  froze 
on  her  paralyzed  lips;  all  faculties  were  absorbed  in  the  one 
faculty  of  seeing. 

On  that  dead  face  was  a  look  of  sternest  reproach.  One 
flickering  finger  was  raised  in  warning  or  menace;  and  then, 
keeping  his  spectral  face  still  toward  her,  the  vision  vanished 
in  the  twilight,  to  be  followed  by  another — Laura,  lying  cold 
and  rigid  in  the  little  parlor  at  home,  as  she  had  seen  her 
that  first  night  of  her  return  from  school. 


'.IS"' 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


91 


\ 


A^ain  she  was  kneeling  by  the  bier;  again  that  nameless, 
waiting  (tread  froze  her  to  the  marrow  oi  her  bones;  affain 
the  dead  eyes  opened,  the  dead  woman  sat  erect;  again  Mag> 
dalen  saw  that  fixed,  frozen  look  of  bitter  reproach.  The 
livid  lips  pstrted,  and  a  hollow  voice  spoke: 

'*  She  has  sworn.     See  how  she  keeps  her  vow." 

The  dead  arms  reached  out  to  her.  With  a  wild  cry  of 
terror  the  dreamer  started  up  and  awoke — awoke  to  find  ner- 
self  cram])ed  and  benumbed,  and  cold  to  the  heart. 

The  lire  had  died  out,  the  dismal  dawn  filled  the  room,  the 
lamp  burned  dim  and  wan  on  the  table,  and  her  wedding-day 
had  come. 

Pale  as  a  spirit,  Magdalen  rose  up,  the  blank  horror  of  her 
dream  upon  her  yet. 

**  Something  will  happen  this  day,"  she  said,  with  a  shiver. 
**  1  am  doing  wrong.  The  ghosts  of  the  dead  have  come 
to  reproach  me." 

She  could  sleep  no  longer;  she  was  trembling  from  head  to 
foot  with  cold  and  agitation.  The  minutes  wore  on,  the  sun 
arose  with  banners  of  rosy  clouds  to  herald  his  glory;  the 
house  was  astir.  Fanny  was  rapping  at  the  door,  and  the  life 
of  a  new  day  was  be^un— a  day  that  was  to  be  like  no  other 
in  Magdalen  All  ward  s  life. 

From  that  moment  events  hurried  on  with  a  rapidity  that 
left  her  no  time  to  think.  The  marriage  was  to  take  place  in 
the  Milford  Episcopal  Church  at  ten  o'clock,  a  wedding- 
breakfast  to  be  eaten  after,  and  the  12:50  train  to  New  York 
to  be  caught. 

There  was  no  time  to  think,  no  time  to  hesitate,  no  time  to 
tell  them  why  she  looked  so  deathly  pale,  why  she  trembled 
like  an  aspen  leaf. 

She  drank  a  cup  of  coffee,  and  then  the  bride-maids  were 
there — a  cluster  of  blooming,  rosy  girls;  and  then  she  was 
up  in  her  room,  with  them  fluttering  around  her  like  butter- 
flies around  a  rose;  and  then  she  was  all  robed  in  spotless  silk 
and  misty  laces,  and  sparkling  pearls  and  virginal  orange- 
blossoms,  and  looking  white  and  lovely  as  a  spirit  of  the  moon- 
light; and  then  they  were  in  the  carriages,  rattling  along,  in 
the  brilliant,  frosty  air,  to  the  church;  and  all  the  time  Mag- 
dalen's heart  was  ringing  with  the  cry,  '*  Soiilething  will  hap- 
pen— something  will  happen!" 

But  George  was  by  her  side — handsome,  happy  George — 
and  she  looked  up  in  his  frank,  honest  face,  full  of  love  and 
undying  tenderness,  and  drew  a  long  breath,  and  tried  to  feel 
safe.    And  then  they  were  in  the  little  church,  half  filled  with 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-S) 


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^  A. 


1.0 


I.I 


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12.2 


i' 


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1-25    |||.4    ||||||.6 

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^W"' 

> 


vi 


.<s^ 


1 


Hiotogr^hic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  145S0 

(716)  872-4503 


1 


92 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


people,  and  she  was  standing  before  a  pale  young  man,  with 
glasses  and  surplice,  and  the  niagic  words  were  being  spoken, 
amid  a  death-like  silence:  "  Wilt  thou  have  this  man," 
etc.;  and  she  heard  her  own  voice  answering,  **  1  will,"  as  if 
it  were,  the  voice  of  some  one  else;  and  then  the  ring  was 
shining  on  her  finger,  and  the  clergyman's  voice  was  repeat- 
ing the  closing  words:  *'  What  God  hath  joined  together  let 
no  man  put  asunder."  Then  the  last  prayer  was  read,  and 
there  was  no  Magdalen  AUward  in  the  world  any  more.  She 
was  George  Barstone's  happy  wife,  and  nothing  had  hap- 
pened. 

They  went  into  the  vestry  to  sign  their  names,  and  then 
Magdalen  was  walking  down  the  aisle  on  her  husband's  arm. 

At  the  church  door  there  was  a  sudden  pause  and  confu- 
sion, for  some  one  in  the  church  had  screamed  out — a  wild, 
shrill  scream.  The  bride  almost  echoed  it — it  struck  on  her 
heart  like  the  knell  of  doom. 

But  it  was  only  some  woman,  the  sexton  said,  who  had  **  got 
weak  and  fainted  away  like." 

The  bridal  party  re-entered  the  carriages,  and  were  driven 
back  to  Golden  Willows.  Breakfast  awaited  them,  and 
breakfast  was  eaten,  and  passed  off  like  any  other  wedding- 
breakfast. 

And  then  it  was  time  for  the  bride  to  don  her  traveling- 
dress,  and  start  on  the  first  stage  of  her  wedding-tour. 

Just  then  something  did  happen.  The  door-bell  rang,  and 
there  was  a  young  man  from  Milford  wanting  **  most  par* 
ticular  "  to  speak  to  the  bride. 

Of  course  everybody  was  surprised;  but  the  bride  saw  him 
at  once,  and  alone.  -  - 

*'  Fm  a  waiter  in  the  Milford  House,"  this  young  man  ex- 
plained, twirling  his  hat  uneasily  in  the  radiant  bridal  pres- 
ence, **  and  Pve  been  sent  by  the  boss  to  say  there  is  a  elderly 
party  at  our  house  talking  on  about  you  most  awful.  It's  an 
old  woman  that  came  last  night,  with  a  little  girl,  and  she 
went  this  morning  to  see  you  married,  and  she  screeched  right 
out  in  meetin',  and  had  to  be  took  home.  Now  she's  going 
on  horrid,  and  says  she  must  see  you  right  away,  or  something 
dreadful  will  happen,  and  to  tell  you  her  name  is  *  Nurse 
Eachel,'  and  to  come  to  her  as  fast  as  you  can." 

The  yonng  man  was  quite  out  of  breath  with  this  long 
speech,  and  paused  here  with  a  gasp. 

Magdalen,  white  as  her  dress  as  she  listened,  heard  her  hus* 
band  calling  to  her  in  the  hall  without: 


% 


MAGDA.LEN'8    VOW. 


93 


'*  Better  hurry,  Magdalen.  Time  is  on  the  wing— past 
eleven  o'clock. " 

**  Go  back/*  Magdalen  said  to  the  young  man;  *'  tell  her  I 
will  be  with  her  in  half  an  hour.'* 

She  left  the  room,  ran  upstairs,  and  in  ten  minutes  was 
back,  dressed  for  her  journey. 

The  good-byes  were  said,  George  handed  her  into  the  car- 
riage, sprung  lightly  in  after  her,  and  took  his  seat  by  her 
side. 

*'  Tell  him  to  drive  to  the  Milford  House,"  Magdalen  said. 
**  My  old  nurse  is  there,  and  wants  to  see  me.*' 

George  gave  the  order.  In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  they  drew 
up  at  the  door. 

"  Wait  for  me  here,"  Magdalen  said.  **  1  will  not  keep 
you  long." 

She  followed  the  waiter  to  an  upper  room,  opened  the  door, 
and  found  hersolf  face  to  face  with  old  Rachel. 

The  old  woman  was  sitting  over  the  fire,  rocking  herself 
and  moaning.  Little  Laura  was  perched  on  a  high  chair, 
gazing  out  of  the  window  at  the  busy  street. 

Old  Rachel  started  up  with  a  great  cry  at  the  sight  of  her 
nursling. 

**  What  is  it,  Rachel?"  was  Magdalen's  first  question. 

It  had  come— that  unknown  horror  she  had  waited  for. 
She  v/as  not  even  surprised. 

But  old  Rachel's  sole  answer  was  to  shrink  away,  with  both 
arms  outstretched  to  keep  her  o£f,  and  a  face  full  of  blank, 
speechless  dismay. 

**  What  is  it,  Rachel?"  Magdalen  reiterated,  taking  no 
heed  of  little  Laura,  who  had  run  to  her  with  a  gleeful,  child- 
ish cry. 

**  Oh,  my  child — my  child!  what  have  you  done?" 

"  What  have  I  done?"  repeated  Magdalen,  slowly — 
"what?" 

**  That  man— that  man  I  That  man  you  married,  this 
morning!" 

*'  Well?"  cried  Magdalen,  with  ashen  lips. 

'*  Oh,  Heaven  have  pity  on  you,  Magdalen  All  ward  I  The 
man  you  married  this  morning  is  Maurice  Langley!" 


^    :::  CHAPTER   XIIL       .. 

AT  THE    OPERA. 

There  was  a  dead  pause.    Magdalen  stood  staring  at  her 
nurse,  utterly  unable  to  move,  utterly  unable  to  speak.    Amid 


94 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


all  the  revelations  she  had  expected  to  hear,  sht  had  never  ex= 
pected  to  hear  this. 

**  It  is  Maurice  Langley!"  Rachel  repeated,  in  a  fright- 
ened, wailing  voice.  "  Oh,  my  child!  what  will  become  of 
you?  Oh,  my  darling,  1  am  frightened  for  you!  Oh!  why 
did  you  marry  that  man?" 

With  a  mighty  effort  Magdalen  found  voice.  The  first 
stunning  blow  of  so  unlooked-for  an  announcement  passed, 
and  utter  incredulity  came  to  her  aid. 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  she  said,  slowly — "  I  don't  believe 
it!    George  Barstone  is  never  Maurice  Langley!" 

But  old  Rachel  shook  her  head  and  wrung  her  hands. 

"  My  poor  baby — my  poor  little,  innocent  Magdalen!  how  lit- 
tle you  know  of  the  wickedness,  and  treachery,  and  falsehood  of 
this  sinful  world!  1  would  spare  you  if  I  could;  but,  oh,  my 
child — my  child!  why  were  you  let  marry  him?" 

**  Rachel,  for  God's  sake,  hush!    This  is  my  wedding-day." 

**  My  poor  Magdalen!  But  I  speak  the  truth — that  man 
was  Maurice  Langley." 

She  held  up  her  hands  with  a  passionate  gesture — this 
unhappy  bride. 

"Rachel!  Rachel!  have  mercy!  This  is  my  wedding-day. 
Oh,  my  God!  what  is  this  you  are  telling  me?  Are  you  try- 
ing to  drive  me  mad?" 

Rachel  recoiled  in  terror  before  that  colorless  face. 
*  Magdalen,  don't  look  like  that!    My  darling,  perhaps  I 
ought  not  to  have  told  you  now,  when  it  is  too  late;  but  the 
sight  of   that  man— that  Maurice  Langley — after  all  these 
years,  standing  by  your  side,  your  husband — " 

The  old  nurse  paused,  for  Magdalen  had  turned  upon  her 
fiercely  and  seized  her  by  the  arm. 

**  It  is  not  true — I  tell  you  it  is  not!  You  are  deceived — 
strangely,  horribly  deceived!  What  crime  have  1  ever  com- 
mitted that  I  should  be  thus  accursed?  The  man  I  have  mar- 
ried is  the  noblest  man,  the  gentlest  gentleman  God  ever 
made!  Oome  here  and  look  at  him,  and  tell  me  if  George 
Barstone  has  the  face  of  a  murderer." 

She  fairly  dragged  her  to  the  window.  There,  full  in  view, 
sat  Mr.  George  Barstone,  animatedly  chatting  with  two  or 
three  stray  acquaintances,  and  wearing  as  happy  and  careless 
a  face  as  that  New  Year's  sun  shone  on. 

**  Look  at  him!"  cried  the  girl,  excitedly — "look  at  that 
frank,  open,  honest  face,  full  of  nothing  but  kindness  and 

foodness  for  all  mankind,  and  tell  me,  is  it  the  face  of  a  gam« 
ler,  a  seducer,  a  murderer?" 


Magdalen's  vow. 


95 


ii 


;X 


X 


r" 


In  her  passionate  excitement,  certainly  that  genial  counte- 
nance was  a  staggerer,  even  to  such  conviction  as  Rachel's, 
and  then  Magdalen's  frenzy  at  her  revelation  frightened  her. 

*'  1  may  have  been  mistaken,  deary/'  old  Rachel  whim- 
pered, piteously;  **  but  it's  very  like  him — only  he  used  to 
wear  whiskers  under  his  chin  and  on  his  upper  lip,  and  that 
man's  got  none.  I  hope  it's  not  Maurice  Langley,  I'm  sure, 
but  it  looks  like  him."  *" 

**  Looks  like  him!"  Magdalen  repeated,  contemptuously. 

She  let  go  her  hold  of  the  old  woman,  and  leaned  against  a 
table,  panting  and  pale. 

**  You  have  friglitened  me  nearly  to  death,  Rachel,"  she 
said,  laying  her  hand  on  her  11  uttering  heart.  '*  How  could 
you  do  it?  Looks  like  him!  Why,  innocent  men  have  been 
hanged  before  now  for  those  accidental  likenesses.  My  poor 
George!  How  could  1,  who  know  you,  be  so  unjust  as  to 
doubt  you  for  one  instant?  No,  no,  no,  Rachel — ten  thou- 
sand times  no!  1  should  stake  my  life,  my  salvation,  on  my 
husband's  innocence!  1  would  as  soon  believe  an  angel  out 
of  heaven  could  fall  as  that  Maurice  Langley  and  George  Bar- 
stone  were  one  and  the  same!" 

**  Perhaps  so,  my  dear,"  whimpered  Rachel,  quite  over- 
whelmed by  this  impetuous  harangue.  *'  I'm  sure  I  don't 
want  to  believe  it;  but,  oh,  dear,  dear!  he  does  look  awfully 
like  him,  to  be  sure!" 

**  We  won't  talk  about  it,  Rachel,"  said  the  bride,  resolute- 
ly; **it  is  simply  impossible.  George  is  truth  and  candor 
'itself.  He  has  heard  my  story,  and  he  knows  who  I  am-— 
how  my  life  is  vowed  against  Maurice  Langley.  Do  you  think, 
if  you*  horrible  supposition  were  true,  he  would  dare  to  marry 
me,  after  that?  No,  Rachel;  these  black-hearted  villains  are 
all  cowards.  He  would  have  been  afraid  of  me,  weak  girl 
that  I  am.  Besides,  it  is  thf^  wildest  impossibility  that  I  could 
ever  wed  my  sister's  destroyer.  Some  inward  shuddering 
would  warn  me  when  he  was  near — some  secret  prescience 
would  tell  me  of  an  enemy's  presence.  On,  Rachel,  it  is  sim- 
ply, utterly  impossible!  1  don't  want  to  think  of  it — I  don't 
want  to  talk  of  it!  I  love  my  husband  with  my  whole  heart; 
1  love  him  and  honor  him  beyond  all  mankind.  I  will  not 
wrong  him  by  one  suspicion.  George  Barstone  is  above  re- 
proach." 

Her  face  turned  radiant  with  perfect  womanly  trust  and 
love  in  the  man  she  had  wedded.  She  laid  her  two  hands  on 
Rachel's  shoulders,  and  looked  into  her  tearful  old  eyes  with 
the  first  smile  her  face  had  worn* 


m 


96 


Magdalen's  vow. 


<t 


You  meant  well,  Rachel,  and  I  forgive  you.  1  will  not 
tell  a  living  soul  one  word  of  this,  and  1  will  forget  it,  as  if  it 
had  never  been.  And  now  1  must  say  good-bye.  George 
grows  impatient,  I  can  see,  and  our  train  starts  soon.  You 
can  go  back  to  New  Hampshire,  knowing  your  nursling  is  as 
happy  as  the  day  is  long,  blessed  in  a  good  man's  love.  Good- 
bye, dear  old  nursey;  good-bye,  my  little  pet,  Laura.  You 
shall  both  come  and  make  me  a  long  visit  when  we  return 
and  settle  down.'' 

And  then,  with  a  kiss  to  each,  the  bride  was  gone,  leaving 
a  rustle  of  silk,  a  breath  of  sweet  perfume,  to  tell  where  she 
had  been. 

Old  Rachel  saw  her  hi^sband  hand  her  into  the  carriage- 
saw  her  bright  smile  of  undoubting  love  and  confidence — saw 
his  happy  answering  glance — and  all  with  a  dismal  shake  of 
her  aged  head. 

Two  hours  after,  old  Rachel  and  her  tiny  charge  were 
steaming  back  to  the  old  New  Hampshire  homestead,  while 
Magdalen  and  her  husband  were  flying  along  to  the  Empire 
City. 

There  was  to  be  but  a  brief  bridal-tour,  Mr.  Barstone's  busi- 
ness and  Miss  Barstone's  health  alike  forbidding  prolonged  ab- 
sence. They  were  to  remain  a  week  in  New  York,  then  jour- 
ney to  "Washington,  Jinger  there  another  week,  and  then  re- 
turn at  their  leisure — the  whole  absence  not  to  extend  over 
the  first  honey-moon  month. 

Mr.  Barstone  took  his  bride  to  his  favorite  hotelon  Broad- 
way, and  installed  her  in  his  old  apartments. 

There,  in  that  same  sunny  parlor,  he  and  his  bride  took 
their  first  tete-a-tete  breakfast  where  he  had  sat  reading  that 
heap  of  dainty  billets  from  twenty  unknown  young  ladies. 

To  think  that  it  was  my  wife  I  was  advertising  for,  after 
all  I"  said  George,  as  he  related  the  little  coincidence  to  Mag- 
dalen.    **  To  think,  that  out  of  the  twenty,  1  should  have 
selected  Magdalen  Wayne,  never  dreaming  1  was  selecting  my 
.wife!    Extraordinary,  wasn't  it?" 

Magdalen  laughed  good-naturedly. 

"  1  don't  know  about  that.  By  what  1  have  heard  from 
Fanny  and  others,  I  should  judge  you  had  rather  an  inflam- 
mable  heart,  Mr.  Barstone,  and  one  very  easily  ignited 
Probably  the  other  ninetc^en  youug  ladies  were  as  pretty  as 
they  said  they  were;  and,  no  doubt,  had  you  chosen  any  one 
of  them,  the  result  would  have  been  the  same  as  it  is. " 

**  I  don't  believe  it,"  said  George.  *' Allah  is  great,  aoL, 
my  time  had  come.    It  was  my  fate^  you  know;  and  if  . 


V  •->■■' 


;/' 


■A 


MAGDALEN'S    TOW. 


97 


\ 


M 


V 


r 


f 


J 


have  hacl  a  weakness  all  my  life,  it  has  been  for  blue-gray 
eyes,  golden  tresses,  and  the  name  of  Magdalen.  Just  to 
think,  the  last  time  I  breakfasted  here  1  did  not  know  you! 
Even  in  that  benighted  state  1  was  tolerably  happy.  And 
new,  my  dear,  if  you  have  finished  your  breakfast,  we'll  go 
out.  No  doubt  New  York  has  altered  materially  since  you 
and  I  trod  the  pave  last." 

Magdalen  rose. 
j    **  1  thought  you  were  going  to  visit  your  cousin,  George?" 

**  All  in  good  time,  my  dear.  I  don't  suppose  Phil  is  up 
yet — always  was  the  quintessence  of  laziness,  that  fellow.  Hia 
business  will  keep;  and  just  now  1  want  to  give  you  a  drive 
to  High  Bridge  in  this  glorious  January  sunshine." 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Barstone  took  their  drive,  and  returned  to  a 
four-o'clock  dinner.  Then  the  happy  bridegroom,  having 
enjoyed  his  after-dinner  cigar,  and  slightly  changed  his  dress, 
bestowed  an  orthodox  honey-moon  embrace  upon  his  bride, 
and  set  off  to  hunt  up  his  cousin  Phil. 

A  Broadway  omnibus  took  him  uptown  to  his  destination. 
The  early  winter  dusk  was  hanging,  like  a  misty  gray  veil, 
over  the  stony  streets,  and  newly  lighted  lamps  were  sparkling 
as  he  reached  it.  Up  in  the  frosty  blue  sky  the  bright  stars 
were  shining.  Earth  and  sky  were  as  jubilant  as  his  own 
heart,  and  the  bracing  air  was  like  exhilarating  champagne; 
and  Mr.  George  Barstone,  after  ringing  Dr.  Masterson's  office- 
bell,  hummed  the  fag-end  of  one  of  Tom  Moore's  jovial  melo- 
dies while  he  waited : 

*'  They  may  rail  at  this  life;  from  the  hour  I  began  it 
-,v  I  found  it  a  life  full  of  kindness  and  bliss; 

And  until  you  can  show  me  some  happier  planet,^ 
More  social  and  bright,  I'll  content  me  with  //m." 

And  just  here  the  door  opened,  and  a  boy  in  buttons  stood 
gazing  contemplatively  at  Mr.  13arstone,  with  a  face  thafc 
said,  plainer  than  words: 

**  You're  a  nice  patient,  you  sre,  singing  on  the  doctor's 
doorstep!" 

**  Doctor  Masterson  in?"  asked  Mr.  Barstone. 
}     **  No — sick — chronic  rheumatism,"  tersely  responded  the 
boy  in  buttons. 

**  Doctor  Barstone,  then?"  pursued  the  inquirer. 

The  boy  in  buttons  nodded,  and  held  the  door  open  for  Mr. 
Barstone  to  pass  through,  turned  the  handle  of  another  door, 
nodded  mysteriously  again,  and  vanished. 

*'  What  a  sagacious  youth!"  thought  George,  admiringly. 
**How  1  should  like  to  own  him!    I  wonder  if  any  one  has 


98 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


^ 


been  telling  him  speech  is  silver  and  silence  is  gold?  And  1 
wonder  if  Phil  has  soul  enough  to  appreciate  him?  Ah, 
here's  Phil,  absorb  id  in  a  big  book,  taking  his  learned  leisure. 
Phil,  old  fellow,  hov^goea  it?*' 

Mr.  George  Barstone  followed  up  the  remark  by  a  playful 
sledge-hammer  slap  on  the  shoulder,  and  the  young  man  sit- 
ting before  the  fire  in  smoking-cap,  slippers,  and  dressing- 
gown,  rose  up  and  faced  him. 

**  How  are  you,  George?"  said  this  young  man,  with  in> 
eflable  calm.     '*  When  did  you  arrive?''' 

He  wavLU  his  slender  white  hand  toward  a  chair  as  he 
spoke,  and  reseated  himself,  after  carelessly  shaking  hands. 

He  was  an  uncommonly  self-possessed  young  doctor,  with 
ool  gray  eyes,  and  a  thin,  sallow  face — eyes  and  face  unlike 
^eorge's — and  yet  the  two  bore  a  striking  resemblance  to  each 
other. 

*'  You're  married,  1  suppose?"  inquired  Dr.  Philip  Bar- 
stone,  calmly  contemplating  his  cousin;  "and  on  the  first 
stage  of  the  honey-moon,  immersed  to  the  eyes  in  the  joys  of 
wedlock," and  in  a  state  of  idiotic  happiness,  no  doubt." 

**  Yes,  I'm  married,  Phil,"  replied  George,  briskly,  "and 
to  the  dearest  and  loveli'^st  g:irl  in  the  universe!  Ah,  yoii  wait 
until  you  see  her,  Phil!  There  isn't  her  like  in  the  whole 
world!" 

**  Of-jcourse  not,"  said  Phil,  languidly.  **  I  expected  that, 
and  more.  What's  the  name  again?  You  told  me,  and 
Fanny  told  me,  but  really  I  have  a  wretched  memory  for 
names." 

"  Her  name  was  Wayne — Magddleh^Vayne,"  said  George, 
with  some  hesitation. 

"  Ah,  yes;  I  recollect.     From  the  country  somewhere?" 

**  Fjfom  New  Hampshire." 
^     **  And  where  is  she  now?"  ' 

**  At  the  St.  Nicholas.     We  only  arrived  late  last  evening, 
and  I  thought  it  useless  to  try  and  hunt  you  up  sooner.     I 
say,  Phil,  wasn't  it  rather  shabby  of  you  not  to  strain  a  poin 
and  come  down  to  the  wedding?" 

"  Couldn't  possibly,"  said  Dr.  Philip,  beginning  to  pare 
his  nails;  "  the  old  man's  laid  up  by  the  legs,  and  likely  to 
be  laid  up  for  a  month  to  come.  All  the  patients  are  conse- 
quently thrown  on  my  hands,  and  I  may  safely  inform  you  I 
have  my  hands  full.  1  really  don't  remember  a  season  when 
our  business  was  brisker." 
:    Just  here  the  door-bell,   which  had  jingled  twice  since 


MAGDALEN  S    TOW. 


99 


i 


George's  entrance,  jingled'  again,  and  the  boy  in  buttons 
thrust  in  his  head. 

**  Sudden  case,  sir —you're  wanted  right  off.  Old  Mrs, 
Branch  is  in  fits— black  in  the  face,  and  at  the  last  gasp,  the 
girl  says;  and  now  here's  a  boy  says  his  father's  just  been 
brouglit  home  on  a  sliutter,  with  his  back  and  one  leg  broke, 
down  on  First  Avenue,  and  you  are  to  go  immediately." 
' ,  *'  That  will  do,  Samuel,"  said  Dr.  Barstone,  blandly;  **  de- 
part and  shut  the  door.  Tell  them  I'll  go.  My  dear  George, 
don't  hurry  yourself;  it's  only  fifteen  minutes  since  1  eat  my 
dinner,  and  1  always  take  an  hour  after  meals  to  myself,  no 
matter  how  rushing  business  may  be.  Sit  down  and  let  us 
have  a  comfortable  chat;  1  always  find  a  nice,  quiet  tele-d-iete 
conducive  to  digestion — don't  you?" 

George  Barstone  stared  at  his  cousin  in  horror. 

*'Good  heavens,  Phil!  what  a  cold-blooded  reptile  you're 
getting  to  be!  Why,  in  pity's  name,  don't  you  go  to  those 
poor  unfortunates  and  relieve  them,  if  you  can.  at  once? 
They  talk  about  law}'ers  having  hard  hearts  and  stony  con- 
sciences," pursued  the  Milford  barrister,  "  but  I'll  be  hanged 
if  they're  not  unweaned  lambs*-sucking  doves — compared  to 
you  of  the  medical  fraternity!" 

**  Really!"  responded  the  young  doctor,  in  the  same  state 
of  ineffable  calm;  **  is  that  your  opinion?  Well,  perhaps  we 
do  get  a  trifle  hardened  after  awhile;  but  then  it's  only  nat- 
ural, my  dear  boy — just  like  soldiers  on  the  battle-field,  yoa 
know.     Don't  let  us  talk  about  it.     How  is  Aunt  Lydia?" 

**  Much  better,  and  very  much  disappointed  at  not  seeing 
you." 

**  And  Fanny?  But,  of  course,  Fanny  is  well.  The 
amount  of  innate  vitality  that  girl  possesses  is  absolutely  as- 
tonishing. If  you  could  see  the  letters  she  writes  me!  I  never 
read  them  now.  1  glance  here  and  there,  catch  their  nean- 
ing,  and, send  an  answer,  once  a  month,  of  ten  lines.  Misa^ 
Wayne  was  her  governess?  Of  course  she's  very  pretty^- this 
-new  cousin  of  mine?    And  when  am  1  to  see  her?" 

'*  To-night,  if  you  come  to  the  opera.  Magdalen  has  never 
yet  been  to  the  Italian  opera,  and  she  has  a  passion  for  music. 
And  as  you  won't  go  to  see  those  unlucky  patients  of  yours 
while  1  stay  gossiping  with  you  here,  I'll  just  take  myself  off 
at  onoe.  Drop  in  to  see  *  Lucrezia  Borgia,'  and  you  will  see 
jny  pretty  little  wife  at  the  same  time." 

**  1  hope  tliere  is  no  similarity,"  muttered  Dr,  Barstone. 
•  •  Why  will  you  persist  in  being  in  such  a  hurry,  George, 
when  I  t^ll  you  I  shall  not  leave  for  twenty  minutes  j§t? 


•ju^  -rMi'ian^^mifm 


r-i^TTr.* 


100 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


Howerer,  as  you  will  persist,  until  to-night,  fjood-bje.  Beet 
regards  to  the  pretty  Magdalen." 

George  Barstono  departed,  and  Philip  Barstone,  seating 
himseJf  in  his  easy-chair,  smoked  out  a  cigar,  and  gazed 
placidly  into  the  fire.  He  had  very  little  curiosity  to  see  this 
new  cousin  of  his,  very  little  opinion  of  George's  tastes  or 
sound  sense  in  feminine  matters,  and  he  rarely  got  excited 
about  anything.  The  world  came  and  the  world  went,  and 
Philip  Barstono,  M.  D.,  slid  along  with  it,  up  and  dow^i,  and 
never  got  out  of  his  torpid  languor  for  anything  under  the 
sun.  ■ 

His  cigar  finished,  the  young  physician  arose,  donnod  hia 
hat  and  great-coat,  and  entered  his  waiting  gig,  to  make  hia 
evening  round  of  his  patients. 

It  was  late  when  he  returned ;  and  then  there  was  a  light 
supper  to  be  partaken  of,  and  his  dress  to  change,  ere  he 
sallied  forth  to  the  Academy. 

It  was  near  the  close  of  the  second  act  when  Philip  Barstone 
made  his  way  easily  into  one  of  the  stage  boxes,  in  great  style 
— very  elegant,  and  nonchalant,  and  handsome. 

Two  young  men  occupied  the  box  alone,  and  both  greeted 
the  new-comer  with  friendly  ftods. 

**  How  are  you,  Barstone?"  one  of  them  said.  **  Late,  as 
usual!  Working  like  a  horse,  no  doubt.  Hollis  and  I  have 
been  holding  an  animated  controversy  about  you.  Did  you 
know  your  double — your  wraith — was  in  the  house?  Look 
yonder!  Like  enough  to  be  your  twin  brother!  Hollis  swore 
it  was  you,  with  the  mustache  and  imperial  shaved  off,  but  I 
knew  better." 

The  young  man  pointed  to  an  opposite  box,  and  ran  on:    " ' 

'*  You  ftiust  know  the  fellow,  he  looks  so  absurdly  like  you. 
And  the  pretty,  azure-eyed,  alabaster-browed  maiden  by  hia 
side—*  the  fair  one  with  the  golden  locks  ' — who  is  she? 

Dr.  Philip  Barstone  glanced  across,  carefully  adjusting  his 
lorgnette. 

**  My  cousin  George,  I  take  it,  and  his  bride.  I  haven't 
had  a  look  at  her  yet.     He  says  she's  pretty." 

'*  She's  more  than  pretty,"  said  Hollis,  who  had  been  in- 
dulging himself  in  a  prolonged  stare;  *'  there  isn't  a  lovelier 
lace  in  the  house!  That  amber  hair  is  magnificent;  she  holds 
her  head  with  the  poise  of  a  queen,  and  she  has  a  mouth  like 
one  of  Oorreggio's  smiling  angels. "  ■-         * 

Mr.  Frederic  Hollis  was  an  artist  and  a  poet,  and  had  a 
right  to  rapturize  if  he  chose. 

Pr.  Philip  Barstone  raised  his  glass  and  brought  it  to  Ijear 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


101 


on  the  opposite  box.     An  instant,  and  ho  had  given  a  sharj) 

start,  a  sudden  recoil,  and  dropped  the  glass,  his  face  growing 

ashon. 

L    **  Halloo!"  cried  the  young  man  who  had  first  addressed 

him.     **  What  is  it?    Did  you  see  the  Marble  Guest,  Bar- 

stono?" 

Philip  Barstone's  emotions  were  well  under  rein.  An  in- 
stant, and  he  was  his  cool,  negligent  self  again — a  thought 
paler  only. 

'*  I  saw  a  face  I  didn't  expect  to  see,  in  looking  for  my  un- 
known cousin."  He  raised  his  glass  again  as  he  spoke. 
**  You're  right,  Hollis;  Mrs.  George  Barstono  is  a  beauty." 

He  lowered  his  lorgnette  and  turned  to  the  stage.  The  cur- 
tain was  dropping  on  the  second  act  of  the  wonderful  opera. 

**  I  believe  I'll  step  over  and  pay  my  respects.  They're 
just  from  the  country,  and  it  is  no  more  than  common  decency 
requires  to  do  the  polite  thing  by  one's  relatives — particularly 
when  one  of  them  is  uncommonly  handsome.  I  never  gave 
George  credit  for  such  good  taste." 

Magdalen  was  lying  back  in  her  chair,  talking  animatedly 
with  her  husband,  and  looking  brilliantly  handsome.  An 
opera-cloak,  blue  as  her  eyes,  set  off  the  pearly  complexion 
and  gold- tin  ted  hair,  and  excitement  had  sent  a  streaming  fire 
into  those  starry  eyes  and  a  lovely  flush  to  the  rounded  cheeks. 

There  was  a  steady  fire  of  lorgnettes  aimed  at  their  box — 
at  the  noble  and  lovely  head,  all  unknown;  but  Magdalen  was 
completely  unconscious  of  this  embarrassing  circumstance. 
She  glanced  over  her  shoulder,  radiant  and  sparkling,  as 
Philip  came  in,  and  recognized  her  husband's  cousin  at  once. 

George  nodded,  and  went  off-handedly  through  the  formula 
of  introduction. 

**  Phil,  my  wife.  Magdalen,  my  dear,  my  cousin  Phil,  of 
whom  you  have  heard."  v      , 

**  A  thousand  times!"  said  Magdalen,  holding  out  her' 
gloved  hand,  with  a  brilliant  smile.  "  Cousin  Phil  is  a  house- 
hold word  at  Golden  Willows." 

*'  How  eminently  self-possessed  she  is!"  thought  Philip, 
watching  her  covertly  with  half-closed  eyes;  *'  ^nd,  by  the 
beard  of  the  prophet!  what  an  astounding  resemblance  there 
is  to—    Oh,  pshaw!  I  don't  want  to  think  of  her!" 

Magdalen,  as  the  curtain  again  rose,  was  thinking  of  him. 
likewise. 

The  opera  was  over  at  last.  Our  party  rose  with  the  rest. 
Dr.  Phil  saw  them  to  their  hack,  and  then  went  on  his  home- 
ward way,  in  a  dazed  and  bewildered  state. 


' 


■,^-i:  '.  ■,; 


103 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


•*  It  can't  be  possible  such  a  likeness  as  this  is  merely  ths 
work  of  chance;  and  now  I  remember  there  was  a  sister  I 
never  saw  away  at  school.  This  girl  is  tailor  and  handsomer 
than  she  was;  but,  good  Heaven!  sheisher  very  imago!  There 
was  a  look  in  tho  eyes  of  CJoorge's  wifo,  once  to-night,  that  I 
saw  in  her  eyes  on  that  last  liorrible  night  when  we  parted 
forevtr.  I've  turned  over  a  new  leaf,  and  I  don't  want  to  go 
back  to  the  old  leaves;  but  if  Mrs.  George  Barstone  were  an 
•nemy  of  mine,  I  think  I  should  be  obliged  to.  But  it'«  all 
nonsense,  1  dare  say.  I  never  knew  any  one  by  the  name  of 
Wayne,  and  she  was  Miss  Magdalen  Wayne  when  George 
married  her." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE  MARK   ON   GEOIIGE'S  ARM. 

'  A  LENGTHY  stream  of  carriages  drew  up  this  frosty  Janu- 
ary night  before  the  stately  mansion  of  Mrs.  Moreland,  oa 
New  "i  ork's  stateliest  avenue. 

Mrs.  Moreland  was  **  at  home  "  to  her  dear  five  hundred 
friends;  and  the  gas  flared  high  over  **  lovely  women  and 
brave  men,"  and  the  heavenly  melody  of  wild-melaocholy  Ger- 
man waltz  music  floated  and  filled  the  perfumed  rooms.  It 
was  one  of  the  most  brilliant  affairs  of  the  season,  and  every- 
body that  was  anybody  was  there. 

Among  the  rest — fashionably  late,  the  most  fastidiously  at- 
tired, handsome,  gay,  nonchalant — lounged  in  Dr.  Philip 
Barstone.  He  was  eminently  popular,  this  rapidly  rising 
young  practitioner,  among  the  fairer  sex;  and  perhaps  his 
white  teeth,  dark-hazel  eyes,  faultless  manners,  and  well- 
ahaped  nose  had  a  good  deal  to  do  with  it.  He  lounged  in 
about  midnight,  paid  his  respects  to  Mme.  Moreland,  and 
took  up  his  position  against  a  slender  column  to  reconnoiter. 

**  Fair  beauties  in  blue,  dark  beauties  in  pink  and  yellow, 
dashing  damsels  in  all  the  hues  of  the  rainbow,  and  timid  lit- 
tle angels  in  snowy  gauze  and  drooping  ringlets,"  mused  Dr. 
Philip,  surveying  the  glittering  spectacle  and  taking  stock. 
"  There  are  heiresses  among  those  radiant  young  ladies  worth 
half  a  million,  I  dare  say,  and  the  thing  for  me  to  do  would 
be  to  marry  one  of  them,  and  range  myself,  and  repent,  and 
atone.  As  if  I  could  ever  atone!  And  that  reminds  me  it 
was  to  see  George  and  his  wife  I  came  here  to-night,  and — ■ 
ah!  there  she  is,^nd  there  is  nothing  else  half  so  lovely  under 
the  gas-light!" 
"It  was  Magdalen— a  glittering,  bride-like  figure/ in  ricli 


1IAGDALEN*8    VOW. 


103 


white  silk  under  white  lace — like  snow  under  silvery  mist — 
and  pearls  clasping  buck  the  golden  drooping  tresses,  and 
clasping  the  dazzling  white  arms  and  neck — Magdalen  liar-, 
stone,  beautiful  and  stately  as  a  queen. 

**  By  Jove!"  Philip  cried,  under  his  breath;  **  what  a  radi- 
ant vision!  And,  heavens  above!  what  an  unearthly  resem- 
blance to  one  dead  and  buried!    I  must  hunt  up  George  at 


once. 


}  He  turned  hastily  to  go,  and  encountered  his  friend  of  the 
opera-box,  staring  iixedly  at  the  dazzling  bride. 

**  Ah,  llollis!'*  with  a  cool  nod.  Turned  astronomer? 
Lost  in  admiration  of  the  Evening  Star?'* 

*'  What  a  lucky  fellow  your  country  cousin  is,  Phil!"  Hollis 
said,  regretfully.  **  There  stands  my  ideal — the  divinity  I 
have  been  worshiping  in  dreams  all  my  life;  and  lo!  her  earth- 
ly name  is  Mrs.  Barstone.  I  would  give  half  the  fortune — I 
haven't  got — for  such  a  model  for  my  new  picture — my 
*  Aphrodite  Kising  from  the  Sea.'  Ah,  it's  a  thousand  pities 
she  s  another  maii^a  wife!'' 

*'So  it  is.  The  goods  of  this  lower  world  are  unfairly 
divided.     Apropos — have  you  seen  that  *  other  man  '?" 

**  You'll  find  him  below  there,  dancing.  He  has  been  at  it 
incessantly  since  1  came  in." 

The  two  men  parted,  the  artist  making  his  way  to  where 
Magdalen  stood,  the  center  of  an  admiring  circle;  and  Philip, 
finding  George  resting  himself,  very  red  and  tired,  and  mop- 
ping his  face,  after  a  frantic  galop. 

**  Harder  work  than  breaking  stones  on*  the  road,  by 
George!"  said  the  Milford  lawyer,  linking  his  arm  through 
his  cousin's  and  walking  him  off.  *'  How  they  stand  it,  the 
goodness  only  knows!  We  are  fearfully  and  wonderfully 
made — particularly  women.  They  call  them  the  weaker  sex, 
but  I'll  be  hanged  if  the  weakest  of  them  can't  dance  down 
the  strongest  man  here!  How  is  it?  You're  a  doctor,  and 
ought  to  know. " 

**  1  don't  pretend  to  understand  the  marvelous  sex,  if  1  am 
a  doctor.  .  If  I  did,  I  might  comprehend  why  the  prettiest 
woman  1  ever  saw  has  thrown  herself  aw^ay  upon  you.  ' 

Mr.  George  Barstone,  red  and  radiant  enough  already, 
turned  yet  more  radiant,  hearing  this.  Wherf  his  blue-eyed 
wife  was  concerned,  the  big  Milford ian  was  as  open  to  flattery 
as  the  veriest  school-boy. 

*'  She  is  the  cynosure  of  all  eyes — I  believe  that's  how  the 
novels  put  it,"  went  on  the  artful  young  doctor.  **That 
fellow,  llollis— an  artist,  you  know—raves  about  h«r,  and  I 


«*» 


< 


:jr,"  j^.wh;*-' 


i 


^^*  : 


/  ' 


104 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


left  her  holding  a  little  court  of  all  that  is  beat  at  this  crush. 
Has  she  any  sisters?  and  if  so,  how  many?  and  are  those  sis- 
ters unmarried?  and  would  they  be  likely  to  look  twice  on  a 
rising  young  physician  of  unexceptional  manners  and  mor- 
ality?" 

Dr.  Philip  paused  in  his  little  catechisna,  and  George 
laughed — his  big,  Dooming,  honest  laugh— a  trifle  too  loud, 
but  melodious. 

"  Sisters?  No;  my  pretty  Magdalen  stands  alone  in  the 
wide  world,  and  I  am  selfish  enough  to  be  giad  of  it.  Sh^  has 
neither  father,  mother,  sister,  nor  brother — "  Mr.  Barstone 
checked  himself  with  a  sudden  pull  up.  He  recollected  the 
convict  brother  of  Magdalen's  story,  and  winced  under  the 
recollection.  **  None,  at  least  ''—in  a  very  subdued  tone — 
'*  that  1  ever  saw.*' 

Dr.  Philip  noticed  the  mental  reservation  at  once. 

**  She  may  have,  for  all  that,  hey?''  ''  -■ 

**  1  believe  there  is  a  brother — a  wild  young  fellow.  Mag- 
dalen has  not  seen  him  for  years.  There  must  be  a  black 
sheep  in  every  flock,  1  suppose,  and  he  is  the  black  sheep  of 
hers.     It's  an  unpleasant  subject;  let's  drop  it." 

"  With  all  my  heart!  And  the  remainder  of  Mrs.  Bar- 
stone's  relatives  are  dead?" 

**  Every  one.  There's  a  little  niece,  1  believe,  lives  with  an 
old  nurse,  somewhere  up  in  Nev/  Hampshire,  in  the  family 
homestead.  She  goes  there  sometimes — Magdalen  does — but 
that's  all."  ;     ' 

**  A  little  niece?  The  daughter  of  the  family  scape-goat,  1 
take  it?"    • 

**  No;  the  daughter  of  my  wife's  only  sister." 

The  gray  pallor  that  had  darkened  Philip  Barstone's  face 
at  the  opera  crept  slowly  over  it  from  brow  to  chin. 
,    *'  A  sister?    She  has  a  sister  dead,  then — an  only  sister?" 

**  Yes,"  said  George,  gravely.  *' Her  story  is  a  very  sad 
one.  My  poor  little  girl  has  had  hard  family  trials  to  endure 
in  her  short  life.  She  told  me  her  history,  poor  child!  before 
she  would  consent  to  marry  me — a  pitiful  history  of  the 
wrongs  and  wrong-doing  of  others — and  we  agreed  not  to 
talk  of  it.  When  you  are  speaking  to  Magdalen,  don't  al- 
lude to  her  family  or  question  her  about  her  relatives.  The 
jBubjent  to  her  is  a  painful  one. " 

There  was  no  reply.  The  sickly,  grayish  hue  lay  on  the 
doctor's  face  like  a  palpable  cloud;  his  lips  were  dry,  and  his 
voice  was  husky. 

**  Was  the  brother  of  your  wife  ever  in  New  York,  George?" 


Magdalen's  vow. 


105 


he  asked.  **  Ifc  strikes  me  I  have  seen  a  face,  somewhere, 
strangely  like  hers.  I  knew  a  fellow  here,  once,  resembling 
her  sufficiently  to  be  her  twin-brother." 

**  Not  unlikely,"  said  George.  **  I  dare  say  you  knew  him. 
He  was  rather  in  your  line  at  that  time,  I  believe.  How  lone 
ago  ]s  it?" 

**  Four  years,  or  thereabouts." 

**  Ah!  that's  the  time.  You  were  riding  the  high  horse 
then,  and  he  was  mounted  on  a  similar  lofty  quadruped.  I 
dare  say  you  knew  him.     *  Birds  of  a  feather,'  etc." 

**  I  can't  say.  The  fellow  I  knew,  if  he  were  really  her 
brother,  must  have  gone  under  an  assumed  name.  He  called 
himself  AUward — William  Allward. " 

*'  Hush,  for  pity's  sake!"  George  Barstone  grasped  his  arm 
and  looked  behind  in  dismay.  "1  would  not  have  Magdalen 
hear  you  for  worlds!  You  have  no  idea  how  she  feels  on  the 
subject.  That  was  her  brother,"  lowering  his  voice.  "  Do 
you  know  his  fate?" 

*'  Why,  yes,"  said  Dr.  Philip,  carelessly.  **  He  committed 
forgery,  and  got  sent  up  for  four  years.  By  the  way,  hie 
time  ought  to  be  about  served  out;  you'll  be  having  a  visit 
from  him  one  of  these  days,  I  suspect.  My  dear  George, 
haven't  you  rather  dropped  into  a  hornet's  nest?" 

**  My  wife  is  an  angel — more  perfect  in  soul  than  in  body!" 
George  said,  hotly.  "Take  you  care,  Phil!  Even  you 
might  say  a  word  too  much." 

**Dear  old  George,  don't  be  in  such  a  hurry  flourishing 
your  cudgels.  I  won't  say  that  one  superfluous  word.  With- 
out having  the  same  safe  grounds  to  go  upon  you  have,  I  am 
ready  to  swear,  by  all  the  gods  and  goddesses,  Mrs.  Barstone 
is  perfection,  only  a  little — just  a  little—unfortunate  in  her 
relatives.  Still,  it  can  hardly  be  the  same.  This  Willie 
Allward  had  a  sister  living  here  in  New  York  at  that  time — 
he  told  me  about  her — living  here  with  some  worthless  fellow 
— a  professional  gambler,  more  than  suspected  of  having  an- 
other wife," 
f-  George  reddened,  half  in  anger,  half  in  shame. 

"  That  is  the  sister  1  spoke  of.  She  is  dead  and  buried 
now,  and  the  little  niece  is  her  child." 

**  She  left  a  child,  then?"  very  slowly. 

**  She  did.  How,  in  the  name  of  Heaven,  Philip  Barstone, 
have  you  wormed  this  story  out  of  me?  I  promised  Magda- 
len faithfully  I  wouldn't  tell,  and  see  how  I  keep  my  wo5l" 

**  Pshaw!  it's  no  secret     Does  Aunt  Lydia  know?" 

"Yes." 


.1 


ill 


■  ;■):  . 


106 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


**  Your  wife  was  honest,  at  all  events,  to  tell  you.  Many 
girls  would  have  tried  to  gloss  over  such  a  history.  You  say 
she  feels  deeply  the  family  disgrace?*' 

**  More  deeply  than  I  'can  tell  you.  The  subject  is  unut- 
terably painful  to  her,  and  God  graat  she  may  never  meet 
the  man  who  wrought  all  the  wrong!" 

*'  There  would  bo  a  scene,  no  doubt,"  Dr.  Philip  said, 
coolly.  **  1  should  take  her  to  be  a  good  hater.  But  she  is 
hardly  likely  to  meet  him,  I  should  say,  or  know  him  if  she 
did  meet  him,  after  all  those  years.  She  must  have  been  a 
child,  almost,  four  years  ago." 

**  She  was  sixteen  years  old.  And  now,  Philip  Barstone, 
have  the  goodness  to  finish  at  once  and  forever  with  this  sub- 
ject. One  would  think  I  was  on  the  witness-stand,  and  you 
were  the  opposite  counsel. "  . 

The  doctor  laughed  softly. 

*'  Dear  old  boy,  how  sensitive  you  are  growing!  Have  no 
fear  of  my  discretion.  1  will  be  the  last  man  alive  to  rake  up 
the  dead  ashes  of  the  past;  and,  in  token  of  my  cousinly  re- 
gard, I  am  going  to  ask  Mrs.  George  Barstone  for  the  *  ger- 


man. 


>  if 


.  Mrs.  Moreland's  ball  was  a  brilliant  success,  and  the  queen- 
ly bride  of  the  Milford  lawyer  the  undisputed  belle  of  the 
night.  Dr.  Philip  Barstone  did  her  the  honor  of  asking  her 
to  dance  more  than  once;  but,  rather  to  his  chagrin,  Mrs. 
George  was  either  engaged  or  too  much  fatigued  for  quadrilles 
and  round  dances.     She  only  danced  with  her  husband. 

*'  I  don't  like  him,"  MagdaTfen  said  to  herself,   "  and  I 

doEi't  know  why.     He  is  George's  cousin,  and  1  ought  to  like 

him  for  that  reason  alone;  but  I  don't.     There's  a  look  in 

4hose   keen  eyes  of   his  that  repels  me,  and  an  expression 

around  his  mouth  sometimes  that  is  simply  odious." 

Mrs.  George  Barstone  spent  a  very  delightful  night,  despite 
this  little  drawback.  It  was  her  first  ball,  and,  with  the  con- 
sciousnesb  of  looking  her  best  and  being  faultlessly  dressed, 
.she  gave  herself  up  to  the  enjoyment  of  the  hour,  and  was 
celestially  happy. 

It  was  very  charming  to  be  sought  after  by  all  the  best  men 
in  the  room,  and  to  see  George's  eyes  sparkling  with  the 
knowledge  that  his  wife  was  the  prettiest  woman  at  the  ball. 

**  I  always  knew  you  were  the  loveliest  thing  under  the  sun> 
Mrs.  Barstone,"  George  said  to  her,  his  honest  face  one  radi- 
ant glow;  **  but  1  didn't  know  other  people  would  find  it  out    * 
tt»fevflrst  sight.     I'm  glad  to  see  there  is  good  taste  still  left  in 


Magdalen's  vow. 


10^ 


N'ew  York.     Are  you  aware  you  are  the  reigning  belle  of  tbe 
night?'' 

Magdalen  laughed  and  blushed. 

**  Don't  talk  nonsense,  George.  Do  you  know  1  am  excess- 
ively tired,  after  five  hours'  consecutive  dancing?  If  Fanny 
ffere  only  here  now,  how  delighted  she  would  be,  poor  child! 
The  music,  the  toilets,  this  endless  succession  of  dances — " 

**  And  Phil,'*  put  in  George.  '*  By  the  bye,  I  forgot  to 
ask  you:  how  do  you  like  Phil?" 

**  Oh,  well  enough!  Pray  don't  talk  while  waltzing, 
George." 

**  Well  enough!"  persisted  George.     **  Is  that  all?    I  waa 
sure  you  would  like  Phil." 
And  did  I  say  I  didn't?" 

Your  tone  implies  it.     And  then,  you  wouldn't  dance 
with  him." 


(t 


(( 


**  Well,  I  was  engaged." 
"  Not  at  all  times.^' 


**  Tired,  then.  Don't  be  a  tease,  George!  Doctor  Philip 
Barstone  is  well  enough.  But  1  have  heard  Fanny  singing 
paeans  in  his  praise  so  long  that  I  grew  to  expect  something 
seraphic;  and,  finding  him  only — " 

Magdalen  paused  provokingly.  « 

•*  Only  what?"  persisted  George.  - 

**  Only  a  tall  young  man,  very  like  any  other  tall  young 
man,  with  blonde  hair  and  mustache.  I  am  a  little  disap- 
pointed, that  is  all.  'Now,  suppose  we  drop  the  subject.  Dis- 
cussing your  cousin  and  waltzing  at  this  rate  1  don't  admire." 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Barstone  were  among  the  earliest  guests  to 
leave,  and  George,  who  had  danced  without  intermission, 
found  hir  self,  at  four  A.  M.,  completely  prostrated. 

**  Never  was  so  used  up  in  my  life  before,  by  Jove!"  Mr. 
Barstone  said,  during  the  hom.eward  drive — "even  at  a  Mil- 
ford  picnic,  where  they  dance  on  the  grass  from  sunrise  to 
sunset.  1  expect  to  sleep  until  our  five-o'clock  dinner  to- 
day, and  don't  you  presume  to  wake  me,  Mrs.  Barstone!" 

*'  It  has  been  a  charming  ball!"  Magdalen  answered,  nest- 
ling cozily  in  her  wraps.  "  I  never  had  a  more  delightful 
time." 

And  as  she  cuddled  up  by  her  devoted  slave's  side,  chatting 
gayly  of  the  ball,  and  the  people  she  had  met,  no  warning 
chill  foil  upon  her  happy  heart,  to  tell  her  it  was  the  last 
blissful  night  she  was  to  know  for  snch  a  weary,  weary  while. 

Mr.  Barstone  conscientiously  fulfilled  his  prediction  of 
sleeping  very  late  next  day.     The  noonday  sun  streaming 


n 


m 


108 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


!' 


brightly  in  awoke  Magdalen,  who  arose  at  once  and  made  her 
toilet 

She  sung,  as  she  dressed,  gay  little  scraps  of  songs,  for  very 
lightness  of  heart,  and  smiled  back  at  her  own  fair  image  in 
the  glass.  She  knew  she  was  pretty,  of  course.  Was  not 
that  a  lovely  vision,  a  beautiful,  youthful  face,  that  shone 
upon  her  in  th4  tall  mirror,  encircled  with  that  brightest 
nimbus  of  golden  hair? 

**  I  am  glad  I  am  pretty,  for  George's  sake,"  she  said, 
blushing  brightly  there  by  herself — *'  dear  George — dear, 
kind,  devoted  George,  who  loves  the  very  ground  1  walk  on, 
and  who  shows  it,  in  the  honesty  of  his  great  heart,  as  simply 
as  a  child.  Ah,  what  a  happy  girl  1  am,  and  how  thankful  1 
ought  to  be!"         ^ 

She  had  finished  her  toilet,  and  stood  looking  at  her  sleep- 
ing husband.  And  though  the  great  gray  eyes  were  dim  with 
thankful  tears,  Magdalen  could  hardly  resist  laughing,  too; 
for  poor  George  was  asleep  with  his  mouth  wide  open,  and 
his  fair  hair  all  tossed  and  rumpled,  and  his  head  twisted  into 
a  position  exquisitely  uncomfortable  even  to  look  at. 

**  And  to  think,"  the  smiling  bride  said,  inwardly,  **  that 
Eachel  could  mistake  him  for  Maurice  Langley!" 

She  had  almost  forgotten  her  old  nurse's  incredible  an- 
nouncement on  her  wedding-day,  but  it  came  back  to  her 
now.  At  the  same  instant,  like  a  flash  of  light,  came  another 
recollection. 

"  The  mark  on  Maurice  Langley's  arm!  1  had  quite  for- 
gotten that.     Ah,  I  can  easily  prove  Rachers  mistake  now!" 

George's  left  arm  hung  loose  over  the  clothes.  Very  lightly, 
very  skillfully,  and  smiling  at  her  own  little  plot,  she  undid 
the  button,  and  daintily  drew  up  the  sleeve.  The  arm,  white 
as  her  own,  and  corded  like  an  athlete's,  was  really  superb, 
reviewed  as  a  limb  in  the  abstract;  but  Magdalen  stood  hold- 
ing it,  with  an  awful  change  coming  over  her. 

Rigid  she  stood,  her  eyes  dilating,  every  drop  of  blood  slow- 
ly leaving  her  face. 

For  there,  between  wrist  and  elbow,  was  the  very  tattoo- 
ing Rachel  had  described  so  minutely;  the  blue  wreath  of 
leaves  and  grapes,  the  red  heart  with  the  dagger  thrust 
through,  and  the  big  black  initial  "  B." 

The  arm  dropped  from  her  frozen  fingers  and  fell,  and  still 
the  sleeper  did  not  awake;  and  Magdalen  stood  there  as  if 
■lowly  turning  to  stone. 


.■^-■•."'- 


■,ra;'-3«' 


MAGDALEN  S    VOW. 


109 


x^ 


/> 


.1:  CHAPTER  XV.        -  ,^ 

CURSED  WITH  THE  CURSE  OF  AN  ACCOMPLISHED  PRAYEIU 

It  was  three  hours  later.  Magdalen  Barstont  sat  by  her 
parlor  window  in  the  great  hotel,  looking  blankly  out  into  the 
street  below.  She  was  scarcely  thinking — she  v»as  scarcely 
suffering.  She  sat  benumbed,  motionless,  like  ane  who  had 
received  a  great  and  stunning  blow. 

The  worst  had  oome — the  worst  that  could  ever  happen. 
The  aim  ol  her  life  was  accomplished;  her  prayer  of  years 
had  been  heard.     She  had  found  Maurice  Langley! 

George  Barstone  still  slept — slept  as  soundly  and  peaceful- 
ly, in  the  inner  room  yonder,  as  some  tired  child.  This  be- 
trayer of  innocent  girls,  this  tempter  of  weak  boys,  this  utter- 
ly vile  and  unprincipled  wretch  could  still  sleep,  it  seemed,  as 
tranquilly  as  a  babe  on  its  mother's  breast.  And  presently, 
he*fvoul4  wake,  Magdalen  knew,  smiling  and  jovial,  and 
sweet-tempered,  with  loving  looks  and  caresses  for  her — for 
JieVf  the  sister  of  Laura  All  ward! 

She  had  found  Maurice  Langley,  and  old  Rachel  was  right, 
after  all.  The  aim  of  her  life  was  realized.  She  had  found 
the  man  who  had  deceived  and  deserted  her  sister  and  sent  her 
to  a  premature  grave — who  had  broken  her  father's  heart — 
who  had  made  a  forger,  a  gambler,  a  convict  out  of  her  only 
brother!  She  had  found  the  wretch  whom  she  had  vowed  to 
hunt  mercilessly  dow'n;  and  that  man  was  her  husband!  Her 
prayer  for  vengeance  had  been  heard;  it  only  remained  for 
ner  to  keep  her  vow. 

She  sat  there,  while  the  short,  wintery  afternoon  wore  on, 
her  hands  clasped  in  her  lap,  her  dilated  eyes  staring  straight 
before  her  and  seeing  nothing. 

Over  the  smaller  troubles  of  life  Magdalen  could  weep  the 
ever-ready  feminine  tears  with  the  most  womanly;  but  she 
had  no  tears  now.  The  blue  eyes  had  a  dry,  unnatural  glit- 
ter; two  fever  spots  glowed  red  on  either  pale  cheek. 

She  had  only  one  thought  in  her  mind — one  dreadful 
thought  beating,  beating  in  her  brain:  Oeorge  Barstone  and 
Maurice  Langley  were  one. 

Five  struck  from  the  city  clocks;  the  gray  January  dusk 
was  veiling  the  city,  whose  ceaseless  roar  sounded  in  the  girl'b 
dazed  brain  like  the  roaring  sea.  Stars  glittered  above,  lamps 
twinkled  below,  and  the  dinner-bell  was  pealing  through  the 
house.    George  would  wake,  and  be  with  ner  very  soon  now._ 


■-1; 


m 


I! 


^- 


110 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


Ifcv' 


She  rose  and  walked  over  to  the  glass,  with  a  woman's  first 
instinct,  to  see  how  she  looked.  She  could  feel  the  blank 
despair  in  her  face;  she  could  see  it  in  the  gleamirig  eyes— in 
the  dry,  parched  lips — in  the  hectic  glow  of  eitlier  oheek — a 
strange,  unnatural  face,  not  her  own. 

**  How  ghastly  1  am!"  she  thought.  **  What  a  wretch  1 
]ook!  and,  oh,  pitiful  Heaven!  what  a  lost  wretch  I  am!" 

She  covered  Ler  face  with  both  hands,  and  stood  there,  do- 
ing battle  with  her  despair. 

Through  all  her  dull  torpor  of  misery  there  flashed  upon 
her  the  conviction  that,  as  she  had  been  deceived,  so  she  must 
deceive,  with  the  same  subtle  deception  of  smiles  and  tender 
words  that  had  lured  her  and  Laura  to  their  doom;  so  she 
must  blind  and  betray  him — this  matchless  betrayer! 

He  was  past-master  of  tlie  art  of  guile.  He  had  listened  to 
her  impassioned  story  of  wrong  and  suffering,  knowing  him- 
self to  be  the  wretch  who  had  wrought  her  ruin — the  wretch 
against  whom  her  life  was  vowed;  and  knowing  it,  had  smiled 
in  her  face  and  betrayed  her  as  Judas  had  betrayed — with  a 
kiss.  .        '^^       ; 

He  had  wronged  her  more  deeply  than  he  had  wronged 
either  Laura  or  Willie — more  deeply  than  man  ever  wronged 
woman  before — and  now  her  time  had  come.  She  knew  him 
now,  and  she  must  hide  that  knowledge,  and  work  in  the 
dark,  as  he  had  done.  He  had  been  merciless  to  her  and  to 
all  whom  she  loved,  and  merciless  he  would  find  her  now. 

**  He  loves  me!"  Magdalen  thought,  with  a  glow  of  fierce 
triumph  in  the  thought — '*  he  loves  me— villain  that  he  is! — 
and  the  bitterest  blow  that  can  befall  him  will  be  to  lose  me! 
I  would  leave  him  this  hour,  but  that  punishment  would  be 
too  slight.  I  hate  him — I  hate  him — the  mean,  mean,  mean 
scoundrel!" 

Her  eyes  flashed;  her  hands  clinched.  She  did  hate  him 
in  that  moment,  and  could  have  gone  resolutely  forth  and  , 
left  hii  I  forever;  but  the  reaction  was  yet  to  come.  She  loved  f 
the  man  she  hated — a  paradox,  if  you  like,  but  no  uncom- 
mon case— and  when  this  hot  rage  burned  itself  out,  and  the 
Jove  that  was  as  deep  as  her  heart  returned,  then  her  cup  of 
despair  would  be  at  its  fullest. 

She  stood  there,  rigid  and  cold,  while  the  evening  dusk 
deepened  and  the  chill  night  fell. 

She  could  hear  her  husband  in  the  bedroom  adjoining,  mov- 
ing noisily  about,   splashing  water   and    rattling  basin  and 
ewer,  whistling  an  air  from  last  night's  opera  the  while. 
*^  He  could  eat,  drink  and  be  merry;  and  Laura,  who  had  loved 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


Ill 


hfv 


him  even  as  she  lovod  him,  lay  dead  and  forgotten  under  this 
winter  snow,  and  Willie's  place  among  good  and  honorable 
men  was  forever  lost. 

What  were  the  hearts  he  had  broken,  the  lives  he  had 
ruined,  to  him?  The  world  went  well  with  him.  Men  re- 
spected him,  wealth  flowed  in  upon  him,  and  the  woman  he 
worshiped  was  his  v/ife.  Her  heart  grow  hard  and  bitter  as 
death  as  she  remembered  all. 

**  As  he  has  measured  unto  others,  so  shall  it  be  measured 
unto  him!"  she  thought,  setting  her  teeth.  **  Oh,  George 
Barstone!  in  all  God's  earth  is  there  another  such  villain  as 
you?" 

The  bedroom  door  opened  as  she  lingered  rigidly  there,  and 
George  Barstone  himself,  immaculately  dressed,  and  brushed, 
and  got  up,  stood  before  her. 

**  I  said  I  would  sleep  until  five  o'clock,  and  I've  slept  until 
six.  Ordinary  men  may  bo  as  good  as  their  word,  but  your 
husband's  better,  Mrs.  Barstone.  I  don't  know  how  it  may 
be  with  you,  madame,  but  *  nature's  sweet  restorer,'  etc., 
leaves  me  in  a  perfectly  ravenous  condition.  I  feel  as  though 
I  could  eat  a  broiled  alligator  this  i  loment.  What  are  you  all 
in  the  dark  for,  my  dear;  and  where's  Phil?" 

Mr.  Barstone  approached  his  wife  and  gave  her  a  sociable 
kiss. 

Magdalen  drew  away  from  him,  shivering  from  head  to  foot 
with  a  sick  feeling  of  repulsion. 

*'  Your  cousin?"  she  answered.  "  I  don't  know,  he  is  not 
here." 

She  strove  to  speak  in  her  ordinary  tone,  to  begin  her  new 
role  at  once;  but  deception  and  fplsity  in  any  shape  were  for- 
eign to  the  girl's  nature,  and  her  voice  sounded  cold  and  hard. 

The  quick  instinct  of  love  detected  the  change  at  once. 
George  looked  at  her  curiously  in  the  dusk. 

**  What's  gone  wrong,  Magdalen — taken  a  cold?  You  look 
like  a  stray  spirit — so  white;  you  feel  like  one — so  cold.  You 
have  been  sitting  in  a  draught  until  you  are  as  hoarse  as  a 
raven,  gazing  at  the  moon,  I'll  take  my  oath.  As  if  a  re- 
spectable married  woman  had  any  business  with  the  moon! 
Got  a  match  about  you,  my  love?" 

"No."  .  ^  -'^ 

**  No  matter;  I've  got  one  myself  tomewhere." 

Mr.  Barstone  lighted  the  gas  and  turned  to  contemplate  his 
wife;  but  Magdalen  was  standing  with  l^er  back  to  him,  look- 
ing out  at  the  lamp-lighted  bouleva.  ^,  and  some  one  was 
rapping  without. 


\\ 


til 


PA 

m 


f 


•1 


113 


Magdalen's  vow. 


''  **  It's  Phil,  1  dare  say.  Oomo  in,"  cried  George;  and  the 
door  opened. 

Dr.  Philip  made  his  appearance. 

**Ah!  you  are  up,"  Dr.  Philip  said.  "  1  was  afraid  to 
present  myself  sooner,  remembering  what  a  genius  you  always 
had  for  sleep.  Good-evening,  my  pretty  cousin.  I  trust  I 
see  you  none  the  worse  for  last  night's  dissipation?" 

Magdalen  had  to  turn,  and  both  men  started  and  stared  at 
the  deathly  pallor  of  her  face.  \ 

"Good  gracious,  Magdalen!"  George  exclaimed,  "  you  are 
as  white  as  though  you  were  your  own  ghost.  My  darling, 
are  you  ill?    What  is  the  matter?" 

**  Nothing,"  Magdalen  said,  not  looking  at  him,  **  except 
that,  perhaps,  I  have  taken  a  cold,  as  you  suggested,  or  that 
1  am  the  worse  for  last  night's  dissipation.  We  country  girls. 
Doctor  Barstone,  wilt  at  once  in  your  city  glare." 

She  turned  to  him.  She  knew  the  honest,  loving  eyes  that 
were  fixed  upon  her— honest,  at  least,  in  appearance,  loving 
beyond  doubt — and  she  could  not  meet  them. 

All  her  strength,  and  her  hate,  and  her  resolves  were  melt- 
ing away^at  the  first  sound  of  her  liusband's  voice — at  the  first 
touch  of  his  hand.  For,  oh,  she  loved  him!  and  no  power  on 
earth  could  undo  that  love  now. 

*'  1  heard  you  say  a  moment  ago  you  were  famished, 
George,"  she  said,  trying  to  speak  lightly  and  turn  the  at- 
tention from  herself.  "  Had  you  liofc  better  go  to  dinner? 
For  myself,  1  am  not  hungry.  1  will  have  a  cup  of  tea  up 
here,  and  as  my  head  aches  a  little,  if  Doctor  Barstone  will 
excuse  me,  I  will  retire." 

Dr.  Barstone  bowed  gravely. 

**  If  you  had  not  spoken  of  it,  in  my  professional  capacity  I 
should  have  prescribed  it  myself.  My  dear  George,  don't 
look  as  though  you  had  heard  Mrs.  Barstone's  death-warrant 
read.  It  is  the  very  best  thing  she  can  do.  If  my  memory 
serves  me,  you  invited  me  to  dine  with  you  yesterday,  at  six 
sharp,  and  now  it's  half  past.  I  don't  want  to  be  unpleas- 
antly intrusive;  but  allow  me  to  suggest  that  my  time  is  not 
my  own,  and  that  the  banquet  waits  below.  Good-evening, 
Mrs.  Barstone.  I  trust  to  find  your  headache  altogether 
■gone  to-morrow  by  a  good  night's  rest." 

He  led  George  away — George,  who  seemed  as  though  he 
would  rebel  and  stay  by  his  wife. 

Was  not  this  the  second  week  of  the  honey-moon,  and  had 
not  she  the  headache? 

What  were  all  the  dinners  that  ever  were  cooked  and  eaten 


y  la 


I 


it 


ifWW*'" 


1  t 


i: 


I 


-*♦- 


MAGDALEK*8    VOW. 


113 


Inside  the  St.  Nicholas  to  this  devoted  eight-hour's  fasting 
husband  now? 

**  Don't  be  a  donkey,  George?"  his  cousin  remonstrated. 
**  She's  not  dying,  and  she's  a  great  deal  better  without  you. 
A  cup  of  tea  and  rest  are  what  she  needs.  And  who's  to  rest, 
I  wonder,  with  >,>ur  tiptoeing  about  in  your  horrid,  country- 
made,  creaking  boots,  and  that  face  of  blank  despair?  Wait 
until  you're  married  two  years  instead  of  two  weeks,  and 
though  your  wife  were  in  the  pangs  of  dissolution,  you'll  go 
down  and  eat  your  dinner,  and  postpone  despair  until  after 
the  cheese  and  toothpick.  If  you  don't,  by  Jove!  you'll 
differ  from  all  the  husbands  1  ever  had  the  pleasure  of  know- 
mg." 

I  shall  differ  from  them,"  George  responded,  crustily. 
**  It's  been  your  misfortune,  Phil,  to  see,  all  your  life,  the 
"worst  side  of  human  nature  uppermost,  until  you've  grown 
cynical  and  can't  believe  there's  any  better  side.  That  day 
will  never  come  when  I  will  think  more  of  my  dinner  than  of 
iny  wife." 

"  With  ^11  my  heart.  1  don't  want  to  corrupt  your  morals, 
I'm  sure;  but  most  men  think  similarly  in  the  honey-moon, 
and  afterward— but  you'll  call  me  cynical  again,  if  1  go  on. 
Very  good  soup  this,  eh?  Is  the  pretty  Magdalen  subject  to 
headaches,  may  I  ask?" 

**  Never  knew  her  to  have  one  before,"  George  murmured. 
**  She  doesn't  seem  like  herself  in  any  way,  somehow,  this 
evening.     It  must  have  been  the  party  last  night. " 

**  No  doubt;  reaction  after  exciteuient,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing.  By  the  bye,  isn't  yours  rather  an  obselete  way  of 
spending  the  honey-moon?  I  thought  when  a  man  committed 
matrimony,  the  correct  thing  to  do  wa»  to  try  the  rural  dodge 
— bury  himself  in  some  nice  dull  country  village,  or  go  up  the 
Catskills,  or  down  by  the  sad  sea  waves.  My  ideas  on  the 
subject  may  be  a  little  misty,  never  having  tried  the  holy  es- 
tate; but  it  stpikes  me  that  coming  to  New  York  and  exhibit- 
ing a  blushing  bride  at  the  opera  and  Mrs.  Moreland's  even- 
ing jams,  is  not  the  sort  of  thing  fashionable  society 
prescribes." 

**  Fashionable  society  be  hanged!  I've  brought  Magdalen 
lo^ew  York  because  we  have  enough  of  the  country  the  year 
round,  and  I  took  her  to  the  opera  because  music  is  a  passion 
with  her.  You  ought  to  hear  her  sing — better  than  the 
prima-donna  last  night,  by  George!  sir.  And  we  went  to 
Mrs.  Moreland's  party  because  Mrs.  Moreland  Insisted  upon 
it,  and  my  dear  girl  herself  thought  she  woruid  like  it" 


;^«Pigp^Wli^^^ 


^'^,?;^^: 


tu 


•MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


**  Ah,  yes!"  Phil  said,  pushing  away  his  soup;  **  they  all 
like  it;  and  the  more  they  get  of  it,  the  better  they  like  it. 
How  long  do  you  proposo  remaining  in  New  York?" 

*'  This  week  only.  I  say,  Phil,  you  spoke  a  moment  ago 
of  having  never  tried  matrimony.  Isn't  that  rather  a  mia- 
taker* 

It  did  not  often  happen  to  Philip  Barstone  to  change  color. 
When  he  did,  a  gray  shade  turned  his  sallow,  colorless  face 
the  hue  of  ashes.  That  gray  darkness  came  palpably  over  it 
now,  but  his  voice  was  quite  unaltered. 

**  My  dear  George,  you  never  were  remarkable  for  great 
tact;  but  even  from  you,  1  didn't  expect  that  question.  1 
thought  we  both  agreed,  four  or  five  years  ago,  to  become 
good  boys,  and  let  by-gones  be  by-gones?" 

'*  I  beg  your  pardon!"  George  said,  hastily.  **  But,  my 
dear  Phil,  why  don't  you  marry?  Very  best  thing  you  can 
•do,  if — if  you  are  quite  certain  that  party  is  dead." 

"That  party  is  as  dead  as  Queen  Anne.  Til  thank  you 
not  to  mention  her  again,  Mr.  George  Barstone.  Why  don't 
I  marry?  My  dear  fellow,  I'm  looking  out  for  a  wife  every 
day." 

"  Well,  and  are  they  so  scarce  in  New  York  that  you  can 
not  find  one?" 

*'  On  the  contrary,  it  is  the  embarrassment  of  riches.  I 
know  fifty  girls  1  could  have  for  the  asking — all  very  nice 
girls,  too,  you  understand — girls  of  the  period,  in  short  skirts 
and  sweeping  trains,  and  wonderful  chignons  and  high-heeled 
shoes — girls  who  can  play  all  the  latest  waltzes  on  the  piano, 
warble  all  the  new  songs',  pepper  their  conversation  with  well- 
pronounced  French,  and  talk  to  you  of  women's  rights  and 
the  last  popular  novel.  And  then  there's  Fanny,  poor  little 
thing!  been  dying  for  me  any  time  these  two  years.  Oh,  yes, 
George!  1  could  find  a  wife  in  New  York  before  the  next 
hour  strikes,  if  I  chose." 

**  And  why  don't  you  choose?  Why  doesn't  the  Great 
Mogul  throw  the  handkerchief  to  his  adoring  slaves?" 

**  Because  there  is  one  requisite  none  of  these  nice  girls 
possess,  which  is  absolutely  indispensable  in  my  wife — fifty 
thousand  dollars  in  her  own  right.  When  I  find  that  golden 
girl,  I  shall,  fall  at  her  feet  at  once.  Still,  if  nothing  better 
offers  before  long —  My  innocent  country  cousin  don't  .wear 
that  disgusted  face;  we  all  sell  ourselves  in  these  latter  days. 
There's  your  pretty  wife,  now!  She  was  a  poor  governess. 
You're  not  wealthy,  but  a  well-to-do  and  good-looking  young 
lawyer.     Who  is  to  tell  us  she  didn't  marry  you  to  be  mistress 


Magdalen's  vow. 


115 


o!  Golden  Willows,  and  a  leader  of  fashion  among  the  elite  of 
Milford?" 

**  By  Heaven!  Phil,  you're  too  bad!"  burst  out  George, 
with  flashing  eyes.  *'  You*re  a  worldling  and  a  cynic  to  the 
core — without  faith  in  man  or  woman!  Why,  1  tell  you,  sir, 
rfhe  refused  a  Goldham — Sam  Goldham,  worth  a  million — 
worth  a  dozen  like  me,  as  yotc  look  at  it.  1  tell  you  what:  I 
should  take  it  as  an  insult  if  any  other  fell^  suggested  such 
a  thing  of  my  wife — the  best,  the  most  generous,  most  noble- 
he&rted— ~" 

*' Spare  me!"  Dr.  Philip  pleaded.  **  Be  merciful!  I'll 
take  all  the  rest  for  granted.  I've  had  the  misfortune  to  be 
in  company  with  newly  married  men  before,  and  1  know  the 
litany  you're  chanting  by  heart.  Ah!  here's  that  boy  of 
mine  with  a  note.  Somebody's  dying,  or  thinks  she  is.  Of 
course  it's  a  she.  Wo  doctors  might  shut  up  shop  only  for 
the  women.     Samuel,  unfold  thy  errand." 

*'  Mrs.  Hatton — took  sudden — awful  bad — life  or  death, 
fellow  in  livery  says.  I've  run,  till  I'm  fit  to  drop,  all  the 
way  from  the  office." 

The  boy  in  buttons  delivered  a  note  as  he  spoke,  looking 
unutterably  calm  and  composed. 

**  Fit  to  drop!"  repeated  his  master,  eying  that  expression- 
less face.  "  That  will  do,  Samuel;  don't  tell  any  more.  Go 
back,  and  say  to  the  fellow  in  livery  I'll  be  there;  and  don't 
hurt  yourself  running  if  you  can  help  it.  Mrs.  Hatton — h'm 
— in  extremity?  Oh,  of  course!  She'll  get  over  it,  though; 
they  always  do.  Half  these  women  have  more  lives  than  a 
cat.  1  have  known  'em,  by  Jove!  George,  with  two  dozen 
different  complaints — any  one  of  which  would  kill  you  or  me 
in  a  week.  And  they'll  live  and  live,  and  swallow  pills  by 
the  peck  and  mixtures  by  the  gallon.  Heaven  only  knows 
how  they  do  it!  And  now,  good-night  to  you.  I'll  drop  in 
to-morrow  and  cast  a  professional  eye  upon  the  pretty  Magda- 
len and  prescribe  for  that  tiresome  headache." 

Dr.  Philip  departed,  and  George  ascended  at  onco  to  hia 
own  apartments. 

The  gas  burned  low  in  the  parlor;  the  inner  room  was  in 
darkness.  In  the  dark  his  wife  lay  on  a  sofa,  her  face  buried 
in  the  cushions,  her  long,  light  hair,  unloosed,  falling  about 
her  like  a  veil. 

George  went  softly  in,  and  bent  over  her.  How  still  she 
lay!     He  could  not  even  hear  her  breathe. 

"  Magdalen,"  he  said,  gently,  with  some  vague  dread  at  hii 
heart,  **  are  you  asleep?" 


'n 


116 


magdalen'b  vow. 


There  was  no  reply,  llo  lingered  for  a  moment,  caressing 
those  lovely  blonde  tresses,  but  Hho  never  stirred  or  spoke. 

*•  Asleep,"  ho  whispered  to  himself.  **  Poor  childl  1  will 
not  disturb  her.*' 

He  returned  to  the  outer  room,  turned  up  the  gas,  seated 
himself  in  an  arm-chuir,  took  up  a  book,  and  waited. 

It  was  a  noveI,«and  an  interesting  one,  and  he  read  and  read 
on,  while  the  hours  struck  one  after  another  by  the  city 
clocks;  and  midnight  had  chimed,  and  still  his  bride  in  the 
next  room  never  once  moved. 

As  twelve  struck,  he  laid  down  his  book  and  went  in  again. 
She  remained  as  he  had  left  her— as  still  as  though  she  were 
dead. 

**  Magdalen,"  ho  said,  that  nameless  feeling  of  dread  re- 
turning— *'  Magdalen,  my  dearest,,  awake  I" 

She  was  usually  the  lightest  of  sleepers.  A  whispered 
word,  at  any  time,  would  suffice  to  arouse  her.  But  now  she 
did  not  stir. 

**  Magdalen,"  George  repeated,  kneeling  beside  her  and 
kissing  her — **  Magdalen,  awake!" 

To  his  unspeakable  relief,  she  stirred  restlessly,  and  pushed 
away,  with  a  pettish  motion,  his  caressing  hands. 

*'  What  is  it?  Please  let  me  alone.  Why  do  you  disturb 
me?" 

My  darling,  do  you  know  that  it  is  after  twelve?" 
Well,"   impatiently,   *'  what  of  it?    Do,  pray,  let  me 
alone. " 

But  it  is  so  uncomfortable  here,  and  you  will  catch  cold. " 
No;  I  am  well  enough." 
And  your  headache,  dearest?" 

**  My  headache  is  no  better.  For  pity's  sake,  don't  torment 
me  now.     Go  to  bed,  if  you  are  sleepy,  and  let  me  be." 

Her  voice  was  sharp  with  inward  pain.  She  pushed  hifl 
fcands  away  again,  and  turned  more  resolutely  from  him. 

Not  once  had  she  lifted  her  face  and  looked  at  him.  She 
lay  there  as  miserable  and  suffering  a  woman  as  all  the  city 
held.     •>  •  .  ,  r 

He  rose  at  once,  quite  white— hurt  beyond  expression. 
What  was  the  matter?  What  had  he  done?  How  had  he 
offended  her?  What  did  it  mean?  Without  a  word,  he  passed 
to  the  outer  room,  reseated  himself  in  his  chair,  and  left  her 
to  sleep. 

To  sleep!     Would  she  ever  sleep  again? 

She  lay  with  both  hands  pressed  hard  on  her  throbbing 
temples.    It  was  no  falsehood  to  say  her  head  ached;  throbbed 


(( 


i( 


it 


«( 


/I 


MAnDALEN*S    VOW.  W 

wildly  under  hor  imlma.  She  lay  thoro  HufTorinfi:  niutoly — as 
women  do  8ulT(3r — audi  anguiHh  as  a  pitiful  God  alono  over 
knows. 

The  hours  of  that  dreadful  ni^^ht  wore  on.  Ere  two  had 
chimed  George  was  ualeep  in  his  chair — utiromantically  aak't'p, 
his  htad  all  awry  against  the  back  of  the  chair — so  soumlly 
WBleop  that  there  was  no  danger  of  his  waking  until  broad  day. 

**  He  can  sleep!'*  Magdalen  thought,  bitterly.  '*  Is  there 
anything  or  anybody  on  the  earth  lor  whom  ho  would  lose  a 
night's  rest?" 

She  rose,  stiff  and  cold.  She  could  neither  sleep  nor  lie 
quietly  there.  She  took  a  shawl,  wrapped  it  around  her,  and 
began  pacing  up  and  down  the  room. 

What  should  she  do — what  should  she  do?  She  had  found 
Maurice  Langley.  Was  she  to  keep  or  to  break  her  vow?  tie 
had  deceived  Willie;  he  had  deceived  Laura.  Was  she  to 
spare  him  because,  with  a  more  deadly  deception,  he  had  de- 
ceived her,  too?  Was  she  to  spare  him  because  he  had  be- 
trayed her  into  loving  him — became  her  husband,  and  ruined 
her  whole  life?  Never!  never!  Tenfold  bitterer  let  his 
punishment  be  for  that! 

What  should  she  do?  She  walked  to  the  window  and  laid 
her  hot  forehead  against  the  frosty  panes. 

At  last  even  Broadway  was  still.  Over  it  a  black,  starless 
sky  hung;  up  and  down  the  wild  January  blasts  whirled;  at 
rare  intervals  a  step  echoed  loudly  on  the  frozen  pavement, 
and  a  dark  figure  flitted  by.  Oh,  the  lonely,  lonely  city,  in 
the  dead,  black  night! 

The  wretched  watcher,  looking  out  with  such  weary,  hag- 
gard eyes,  remembered  that  dreadful  night  of  Laura's  flight 
from  Maurice  Langley — that  night  when  she  had  wandered 
homeless  and  houseless  through  these  terrible  streets  until 
morning,  mad  with  the  mad  despair  only  lost  womanhood  can 
know. 

Laura  had  found  a  home  where  such  as  she  only  can  find 
it,  and  here  her  destroyer  slept,  a  happy  and  prosperous 
man.  Should  she  spare  him  now?  Her  heart  seemed  to  grow 
harder  than  iron  as  she  stood  there.  i- 

**  I  will  read  Laura's  letter,"  she  said.  **  Her  voice  shall 
speak  to  me  from  the  dead  once  more." 

She  went  to  her  trunk,  opened  it,  and  took  therefrom  a 
dainty  writing-case  inlaid  with  pearl  and  silver— Dr.  Philip 
Barstone's  wedding-gift.  A  tiny  key,  fastened  to  her  watch- 
ffuard,  opened  it^  and  from  a  nrivate  drawer  she  took  forth 
Eer  d«ad  sister's  letter. 


I 


!<'^;«PK] 


118 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


There  was  sufficient  light  ia  the  room  for  her  to  read  where 
she  knelt.  She  began,  and  read  it  slowly  until  she  reached 
this  paragraph: 

**  1  was  not  his  wife — that  ceremony  at  the  hotel  was  the 
most  contemptible  of  shams.  He  had  a  bond  fide  wife  living 
before  he  ever  saw  me,  and  living  still — deserted,  1  had  been 
fooled  from  first  to  last. '* 

The  fatal  letter  dropped  from  Magdalen's  hand. 

**  I  never  thought  of  that,"  she  said,  in  an  awful  whisper 
— "  1  never  thought  of  that!  The  wife,  linng  four  years  ago 
—deserted— may  be  living  still;  and  ihQn—^vhat  am  1  f 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

UNPLEASANT   FOR  A  BRIDEaROOM. 

Mr.  George  Barstone  awoke  at  eight  o'clock  that  morn- 
ing, to  find  the  wintery  rain  lashing  the  windows  and  the 
January  wind  shrieking  wildly  up  and  down  the  dreary 
streets. 

He  sat  up  and  stared  around  him,  feeling  stiff  and  cramped, 
and  not  a  little  bewildered. 

'*  Have  1  been  sleeping  in  this  unchristian  fashion  all  night? 
And  Where's  Magdalen?    Oh!  I  remember,  she  was  ill." 

He  rose  at  once.  Magdalen  sat  by  the  window  of  the  inner 
rO;^m,.  wrapped  in  a  large  shawl,  watching  the  ceaseless  rain. 

How  white  and  haggard  she  was!  how  miserably  ill  and 
worn  she  looked!    Her  husband  gazed  at  her  in  real  alarm. 

**  For  Heaven's  sake,  Magdalen,"  he  said,  **  don't  tell  me 
you  have  been  sitting  at  that  window  all  night!  Are  you  ill? 
Has  anything  happened?  My  darling!  my  darling!  what  u 
the  matter?" 

His  arms  were  around  her;  he  drew  her  head  lovingly  on  his 
breast  and  kissed  her. 

And  Magdalen,  shivering  through  all  her  being,  struggled 
and  freed  herself,  and  drew  away.  The  husband  of  two  snort 
weeks  stood  gazing  at  her  aghast. 

'  Magdalen,"  he  said,  his  ruddy  face  growing  pale  as  her 
I,  **  what  is  it?    Have  I  offended  you?    Have  I,  in  my 


(( 


own, 


blundering  way,  done  anything  wrong?  1  am  but  a  rough 
fellow  at  best,  and  may  have  hurt  your  feelings  in  some  way 
unknown.  God  knows  I  would  rather  die  than  cause  you  one 
pang!  Oh,  my  wife!  my  darling!  speak,  and  tell  me,  that  1 
may  atone!    This  silence,  this  coldness,  is  torture !'' 


"1 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


119 


He  knelt  before  her,  his  arms  about  her,  his  eyes  full  of 
mute  appeal. 

Was  this  acting?  He  was  quite  white,  and  the  uplifted 
eyes  gazed  at  herju  speechless  pain.  If  it  were  but  acting, 
then  he  was  past-master  of  the  art.  But  this  bride  of  a  fort- 
night knew  better.  Lost  wretch,  false  traitor  that  he  had 
been  and  was,  he  still  loved  her  with  a  strong  and  intense 
love. 

She  felt  a  sort  of  savage  satisfaction  in  the  thought — in  the 
knowledge — that  through  that  love  at  least  she  could  stab  him 
to  the  heart.  In  these  first  bitter  hours  of  discovery  she  could 
feel  neither  pity  nor  relenting. 

She  sat  stonily  silent  now,  not  once  even  looking  at  him. 

*' Magdalen!"  he  pleaded,  *' Magdalen!  Magdalen!  will 
you  not  even  look  at  me,  not  even  speak  one  poor  word?  Oh, 
my  darling!  1  love  you!  I  love  you!  Have  a  little  mercy, 
and  tell  me  what  I  have  done?" 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him  now  full  in  the  face.  How 
strangely  solemn  and  haggard  the  great,  luminous  eyes  were? 

He  remembered  and  understood  that  thrilling  gaze,  and 
never  without  some  of  the  keen  pain  he  felt  then  all  his  life 
long. 

'*  Tell  you  what  you  have  done?"  she  slowly  repeated — 
**  tell  you  what  you  have  done?  Stop  and  think  one  moment; 
look  backward,  if  you  dare,  and  answer  your  question  your- 
self!" 

The  red  blood  surged  slowly  over  his  face  as  he  listened. 
His  eyes  fell.     He  got  up  suddenly  and  walked  away. 

**  I  am  answered,'*  Magdalen  said,  under  her  breath,  and 
turned  her  white  face  to  the  window  once  more. 

He  heard  the  whispered  words,  -^nd  paused  on  the  threshold 
of  the  outer  room. 

*'  I  do  not  understand  you,"  he  said,  in  a  constrained  voicei 
**  Who  has  been  talking  to  you  of  me?" 

**Noone."  ^^ 

The  words  dropped  from  her  lips  like  ice. 

**  What,  then,  do  you  mean?  Why  do  you  allude  to  the 
past?     Who  has  wrought  this  sudden  change?*' 

*'Noone." 

He  came  back  as  suddenly  as  he  had  left  her,  face  and  eyea 
full  of  yearning  love — of  passionate  appeal. 

**  Magdalen,"  he  cried,  **  you  are  cruel — you  are  mercilessl 
As  Heaven  hears  me,  this  is  a  fathomless  mystery!  I  have 
committed  no  crime  in  the  past — none  at  least  that  can  possi* 
bly  canoern  you.    Sume  enemy  has  been  slandering — " 


I 


'•'i-'  '■:' 


120 


3IAGDALEN  S    VOW< 


**  Ah,  hush!"  the  girl  said,  with  inexpressible  wearinessj 
**  let  me  alone,  George  Barstone.  There  is  the  breakfast- 
bell!'*  She  rose  slowly.  **  Forget  what  1  have  said,  if  you 
like,  and  let  us  go  down.  Don't  stare  at  nie  in  that  wild 
way.  Set  me  down  as  like  all  the  rest  of  my  sex— changea- 
ble, incomprehensible,  what  you  like — only  don't  drive  me 
mad  with  questions.'* 

There  was  a  suppressed  intensity  in  her  tone— a  suppressed 
passion  in  her  white  face  and  dilated  eyes — that  might  well 
alarm  any  one  who  loved  her.  It  strangely  startled  this  man 
who  idolized  her.  Without  a  word,  he  drew  her  hand  within 
his  arm  and  led  her  down  to  breakfast. 

The  day  had  been  appointed  for  an  excursion  to  Hoboken; 
but  the  weather,  if  nothing  else,  precluded  all  possibility  of 
that 

Breakfast  was  littl6  better  than  a  farce  with  either,  and 
they  returned  upstairs  the  moment  the  meal  was  ended. 

Perhaps,  among  all  the  Wretched  days  that  were  to  come, 
Magdalen  counted  none  so  wretched  and  hopeless  as  thia  In 
the  after  time,  she  had  at  least  a  confidant  and  a  sharer  in  the 
great  trouble  of  her  life;  that  is,  if  any  one  can  share  the 
trouble  of  a  wife  estranged  from  her  husband. 

To-day  she  had  not  even  that  poor  comfort.  All  the  weary 
hours,  while  the  ceaseless  rain  beat  the  glass,  while  the  win- 
tery  gdsts  whirled  the  sleet  before  it,  she  sat  motionless,  gaz- 
ing at  the  never-lending  stream  of  human  life  below.  She 
held  a  book  in  her  hand,  but  it  was  the  poorest  of  excuses — 
she  did  not  even  pretend  to  read.  And  all  the  while  the  dark, 
sleety  hours  wore  on,  the  same  thought  kept  beating  in  her 
hot  head:  , 

**.  What  shall  I  do?    What  shall  I  do?" 

George  essayed  conversation,  but  his  efforts  were  miserable 
failures;  it  takes  two  to  talk,  as  he  found.  Should  they  go 
to  Washington  on  the  morrow?    No;  she  had  no  wish  to  go. 

Did  she  prefer  remaining  in  New  York  or  returning  to 
Golden  Willows?  She  had  no  choice — she  did  not  care — he 
could  do  as  he  liked — all  places  were  the  same  to  her.  She 
scarcely  looked  at  him  once;  no  need  to  look  to  see  the  pite- 
ous expression  his  face  wore. 

Dr.  Philip  called  in  the  course  of  the  dismal  afternoon,  to 
find  that  obstinate  headache  of  Mrs.  Barstone's  no  better.  It 
was  true  enough  her  head  did  ache — when  she  had  time  to 
remember  she  7iad  a  head — with  a  dull,  throbbing  pain. 

The  doctor  eyed  her  with  more  than  professional  gravity, 
jmd  insisted  upon  feeli<ng  her  pulse* 


"I 


MAGDALEN *S    VOW. 


13t 


of 


**  High— fevfirishly  high!"  he  said.  "  My  dear  Mrs.  Bar- 
stone— my  dear  Magdalen,  if  you  will  permit  the  cousinly 
liberty — you  really  must  take  care  of  yourself,  or — *' 

An  awful  hiatus,  and  a  face  of  owl-like  solemnity.     -     . 

Magdalen  snatched  her  hand  away  in  affright. 

**  I  am  not  going  to  be  ill!"  she  said,  angrily.  **  I  never 
was  ill  in  my  life.  1  toll  you  there  is  nothing  the  matter  with 
me." 

**  Excuse  me.  Do  you  call  that  intolerable  headache,  this 
rapid  pulse  nothing,  my  dear  young  lady?  No  one  could  re- 
gret any  illness  of  yours  more  than  I  should — there  will  be 
none,  1  sincerely  trust;  but  do,  pray,  be  careful  of  yourself. 
Keep  very  quiet,  avoid  excitement — don't  thiiik  /" 

He  spoke  the  last  two  words  with  a  grave  significance  that 
made  both  husband  and  wife  look  at  him.  But  the  medical 
countenance  was  professionally  unreadable. 

Magdalen  flushed  angrily  red.  Did  he  suspect  her  already? 
George's  ruddy  face  was  strangely  pale  and  anxious.  When 
Philip  went  to  go,  he  followed  him  from  the  room. 

**  For  Heaven's  sake,  Phil!"  he  exclaimed,  *'  what  is  it? 
What  is  the  matter  with  my  wife.  I  give  you  my  honor  she 
is  no  more  like  herself  than  day  is  like  night."  -  ' 

**  1  can  see  that,"  the  doctor  answered.  "  Mrs.  Barstone 
is  in  an  abnormal  state.  When  did  this  change  occur,  and 
what  has  caused  it?" 

**  Caused  it?"  repeated  George,  with  a  groan.  **  I  wish  to 
the  Lord  I  knew!  She  returned  with  me  from  Mrs.  More- 
land's  party  as  happy  and  well  as  ever  1  saw  her,  and  next 
day,  by  Jove!  when  we  met,  just  before  dinner,  she  would 
hardly  speak  to  me.  And  it's  been  so  ever  since.  She  hasn't 
eaten  or  slept,  and  her  talk  this  morning  was  incomprehensi- 
ble." 

"  Ah!  what  was  it?" 

**  I  hardly  know  how  to  tell  you — some  crime  I  had  com- 
mitted in  the  past  she  darkly  hinted  at.  Now,  Phil,  I  have 
fone  awry  in  the  past,  as  nobody  knows  better  than  you,  and 
would  give  a  year  of  ray  life  to  undo  what  I  h'&ve  done. 
But  it's  all  over  and  gone,  and  can  in  no  way  concern  her. 
And  then,  between  my  falling  asleep  and  awakening,  who  was 
to  tell  her?  She  was  alone  all  the  time;  and  if  she  had  not 
been,  who  could  tell  her?  Not  a  soul  knows  in  the  city  but 
yourself." 

Philip  Barstone  listened  with  a  darkly  impassive  face,  but 
the  stranf^est  light  of  intelligence  gleamed  in  his  hazel  eyes. 

**  H'm-m-m!"   was  his  comment  with  an  oracular  nod. 


i 


-  ti 


(    *l 


^•'■■. 


I.- 


1. 1* 


^ 


122 


MAGDALEN^S    VOW. 


•i: 


•*  George,  has  your  wife  anything  ou  her  mind?  Dear  old 
boy,  don't  be  afraid  of  me.  Tell  me,  if  you  know.  No  one 
should  have  these  sort  of  secrets  from  their  medical  man.  Is 
there  any  subject  upon  which  Magdalen  broods— anything  in 
her  past  life  to  worry  or  distress  her?'*         ,.         .  ,         ,  ^.,. 

A  light  dawned  upon  Geoige.    • 

"  The  vow!"  he  cried—'*  Magdalen's  vow!  Great  powers! 
she  can't  be  brooding  upon  that !  The  fellow  was  here  in 
New  York.     It  can't  bo  that  she  has  found  him!" 

**  What  vows?  Don't  be  so  melodramatic.  Who  vows 
jn  these  days?    What  do  you  mean?"  - ' 

**  See  here,  Phil,  I  promised  not  to  tell;  but — " 

**  But  where  your  wife's  health,  bodily  and  mentally,  is 
corcerned,  a  rash  promise  is  better  broken  than  kept,  and  I 
tell  you  seriously,  my  dear  fellow,  I  see  grave  cause  for  alarm 
here.     Tell  me  about  this  vow." 

Very  much  alarmed,  ifeideed,  George  Barstone  complied. 
He  told  the  whole  story  of  Magdalen's  troubles,  of  the  vow  of 
vengeance  against  Maurice  Langley." 

"She  would  sacrifice  her  life  in  keeping  it,  if  necessary," 
George  said.  "  Her  whole  soul  is  bent  upon  it.  If  she  ever 
meets  that  man,  my  earthly  happiness  is  at  an  end." 

Dr.  Barstone  laughed,  with  ever  so  slight  a  suspicion  of  a 
sneer. 

"Highly  sensational  indeed!  What  does  Mrs.  Barstone 
propose  to  do?  Her  sister  runs  away  with  him,  her  brother 
forges  a  note;  the  majesty  of  the  law  won't  touch  this  Mr. 
Maurice  Langley  for  either  of  these  little  peccadilloes.  Sad 
cases  both;  but,  unfortunately,  very  common  ones.  I'm 
afraid  this  bombastical  vow  is  only  so  much  blank  cartridge. 
And  it  is  to  be  hoped  she  won't  turn  Nemesis  or  Borgia,  and 
stab  or  poison  him." 

"  Heaven  knows!"  George  answered,  with  a  groan.  **  I 
'can't  tell.  1  only  know,  if  this  sort  of  thing  continues,  1 
ghall  go  mad.  What  do  you  advise,  Phil?" 
**  Have  you  asked  her  what  was  the  matter?" 
**  Yes;  and  she  replies  nothing,  and  adheres  to  it.  I  asked 
her  if  she  would  go  io  Washington.  Rhe  told  me  she  pre- 
ferred staying  here.     Phil,  what  is  it  you  dread?" 

*'  ril  tell  you  later;  1  don't  want  to  be  precipitate.  Let 
her  have  her  way;  humor  her.'  If  she  prefers  silence,  be 
silent.  Take  her  out,  if  she  will  go.  Keep  her  amused. 
I'll  call  again  to-morroW;  and  see  if  this  little  post-nuptial  fit 
pf  sulks  is  dispersed." 


'  \ 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


123 


Br.  Masterson's  assistant  departed,  and  George  returned 
very  downcast  and  distressed,  to  the  parlor. 

His  vrife  kept  her  seat,  looking,  oh,  so  haggard  and  ill! 
gazitio:  out  with  darkly  brooding  eyes  that  saw  nothing. 

The  storm  subsided  toward  evening,  and  the  frosty  stars 
came  out.  Mr.  Barstone  invited  his  wife  to  accompany  him 
to  the  theater,  and  Magdalen  consented,  wearily. 

What  did  it  matter  whither  she  went,  or  what  became  of 
her?  The  world  had  come  to  an  end;  what  was  left  but  mis- 
ery and  despair  now.' 

It  was  a  very  cheerful  scene — the  bright-gilded,  gas-lighted 
theater,  with  its  countless  gayly  dressed  ladies,  and  the  play 
was  the  most  cheerful  of  comedies,  at  which  even  George 
laughed. 

But  she  sat  beside  him  and  saw  the  figures  on  the  stage  as 
though  they  had  been  puppets  in  a  peep-show,  and  the  music 
and  the  talking  were  all  blended  in  one  confused  din. 

When  she  went  forth  on  George's  arm,  she  could  no  more 
have  told  you  what  she  had  seen  and  heard  than  if  that  pleas- 
ant comedy  had  been  Hiudostanee. 

The  light  burned  dim  in  the  outer  room  as  they  reached 
home,  and  on  the  table  lay  a  letter — **  Mrs.  George  Barston  " 
—in  a  big,  masculine  hand,  and  postmarked  New  York. 

**  A  letter  for  you,  my  dear,"  George  said,  handing  it  to 
her;  **  from  some  one  in  the  city." 

•She  took  it  hastily,  with  a  little  exclamation,  for  the  writ- 
ing was  Willie's.  Without  a  word  of  excuse  or  explanation, 
she  passed  hastily  into  the  inner  room  and  closed  the  door. 

She  had  been  thinking  of  Willie.  Ought  she  not  send  and 
tell  him  of  the  discovery  she  had  made?  8he  tore  open  his 
letter  now,  and  read,  with  eager,  burning  eyes: 


156  East Street. 


«( 


Dear  M., — You  see  I  have  found  you.  1  caught  a 
glimpse  of  your  face  the  other  night  as  you  came  out  of  the 
Academy  of  Music.  It  was  only  a  glimpse,  but  of  course  I 
recognized  you.  r 

"  I  tried  hard  to  see  who  was  with  you — your  husband,  of 
course — but  there  I  failed.  The  crowd  took  you  and  left  me 
behind. 

**  Now,  I  had  a  double  motive  in  trying  to  see  your  hus- 
band— something  more  than  curiosity  about  my  new  brother- 
in-law.  1  have  made  a  discovery.  I  have  found  out  Maurice 
Langley's  real  name,  and  that  real  name  Is — yo\\  will  sti^ro 
when  Yoa  hear  it — Barstone. 


'I 


124: 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


i( 


How  I  have  found  this  out,  never  mkid.  I  have  it  from 
reliable  authority.  There  is  nothing  in  a  name — there  may- 
be fifty  Barstones  in  New  York— but  I  tell  you,  Mag,  the  co- 
incidence gave  me  a  chill.  Still,  you  need  not  be  alarmed. 
The  coincidence  of  a  name  is  nothing,  as  I  have  saicl.  1  must 
see  your  husband,  however,  and  at  once.  To-morrow  (Saturday) 
1  will  hang  about  the  hotel  from  ten  until  four.  Come  out 
with  him  some  time  between  those  hours.  Take  no  notice  of 
me;  but  if  you  see  me,  make  your  husband  turn  his  face  in 
my  direction.  He  won't  recognize  me,  even  if  he  should  be — 
But  that  is  all  nonsense!  He  can't  be,  of  course.  Don't  fail; 
I  will  be  on  the  watch. 

*  Willie." 


'  ■      ■■-  V    - 


CHAPTER  XVn. 

THE     FIRST     MOVE. 

Mr.  Barstone  waited  with  considerable  impatience  for  his 
wife  to  read  her  letter  and  reappear.  She  would  tell  him  who 
it  was  from,  of  course.  Gentlemen  in  the  honey-moon  don't 
as  a  rule  care  to  see  their  brides  in  receipt  of  letters  from  un- 
known male  correspondents.  And,  then,  who  could  there  be 
in  New  York  to  address  Magdalen?  So  Mv.  Barstone  waited 
impatiently,  and  whistled  and  walked  up  and  down.    <i  *?  f 

He  was  allowed  to  wait.  Half  an  hour  passed — an  hour, 
still  no  Magdalen,  and  no  sound  within  that  inner  room. 

George  turned  desperate.     He  tapped  at  the  door. 

**  May  1  come  in,  Magdalen?"  he  said. 

There  was  no  reply.  ■.    '. 

He  opened  the  door  and  entered.  The  light  burned  dim; 
all  was  quiet.  Magdalen  was  comfortably  ia  bed  and  asleep 
— asleep  to  all  appearances,  at* least — and  the  mysterious  let- 
ter nowhere  to  be  seen. 

George  was  a  moral  young  man — as  moral  young  men  go 
-»-and  seldom  swore,  his  sunny  temper  aiding  his  morality; 
but  I  am  afraid  he  did  a  little  mental  swearing  to-night. 

It  was  too  bad  of  Magdalen  to  torment  him  like  this.  He 
loved  the  very  ground  she  walked  on,  and  she  trod  him  under 
those  pretty  feet.  mi.'-.  j>  <  r  m^i^in'it 

Who  was  that  letter  from?  What  man  could  there  be  in 
New  York  who  could  not  come  to  see  her,  but  must  write 
her  mysterious  epistles?    She  had  told  him  she  had  not  a  sin- 

fle  acquaintance  in  the  city.     Why  did  she  have  secrets  from 
er  husband?    Had  she  ceased  to  love  him?    Had  she  never 
loved  him?    Wj^s  it  only  to  end  the  drudgery  of  teaching,  and 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


m 


vl 


become  mistress  of  Golden  Willows^  that  she  bad  married 
him^  after  all? 

1  fear  poor  George*  had  but  an  indifferent  night  of  it,  as  he 
tossed  about,  distracted  by  that  fair  young  bride,  who  had 
hitherto  seemed  to  him  a  very  little  lower  than  the  angels. 
He  foil  asleep  toward  morning,  to  dream  feverish  dreams,  in 
which  his  wife  and  a  mysterious  man  in  a  cloak,  whose  face 
he  never  could  see,  were  perpetually  mixed  up. 

The  early  sunshine  flooded  the  room  when  he  awoke,  and 
Magdalen,  putting  the  finishing  touches  to  her  toilet,  stood 
before  the  mirror.  She  was  still  very  pale,  and  there  were 
dark  circles  surrounding  her  eyes,  telling  of  racking  care  and 
sleepless  nights;  but  a  resolute  look  of  fixed  determination 
had  taken  the  place  of  the  haggard  despair  of  yesterday. 

The  hand  of  fate  had  pointed  out  her  course;  Willie's  letter 
took  the  matter  out  of  her  hands.  He  should  know  all  to- 
day. 

"  Dressed,  Magdalen?"  George  said.  **  And  how  is  your 
headache  this  morning,  my  dearest?'* 

"  Much  better — almost  entirely  gone.  A  walk  after  break- 
fast, in  this  sparkling  air,  will  complete  the  cure.  You  will 
accompany  me,  I  suppose,  George?'' 

Accompany  her!  George's  face  lighted  up  with  the  radiance 
of  a  rising  sun.  '  - 

**  My  darling,  T  am  only  too  delighted  to  hear  you  ask  me; 
for  walking,  or  driving,  or  sailing,  I  am  your  most  submissive 
slave.  I  hope  your  letter  of  last  night  contained  no  unpleas- 
ant news?" 

He  asked  the  artlul  question  as  Magdalen  turned  to  quit  the 
chamber. 

"Unpleasant  news?"  she  said,  briefly  and  coldly.  "Oh, 
no!    It  was  from  a  friend  only  recently  arrived  in  the  city.'* 

She  deigned  no  further  explanation,  and  George  arose  and 
dressed,  with  a  very  dissatisfied  expression  of  face.  , 

It  loas  a  secret,  then,  and  she  did  not  mean  to  tell  hira. 
The  green-eyed  monster  took  the  bridegroom's  heart  between 
its  finger  and  thumb  and  gave  it  a  most  horrible  twinge. 

"  What  am  1  to  think?  Why  does  she  make  a  mystery  of 
this'  matter?  Oh,  Magdalen,  Magdalen!  how  strangely  you 
are  changed!" 

They  went  down  to  breakfast  together.  It  was  half  past 
nine,  by  Magdalen's  watch,  when  they  returned  upstairs — an 
hour  too  soon  to  quit  the  house. 

**  You  want  your  smoke,  George,  1  know,"  she  said,  busy- 
ing her^ejf  over  the  trifles  upon  the  table,  **  and  I  hftv©  ft  let- 


'■^^?!?^ 


136 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


1      ! 


.    j 
L  i- 


ter  to  write  to  New  Hampshire.  If  you  wilJ  return  for  me  in 
au  hour,  you  will  find  mo  ready." 

The  hint  was  not  to  bo  mistaken.  George  took  it  and  de- 
parted at  once.  lie  did  want  a  smoke,  to  comfort  him  a  little 
under  all  this.  Ho  sat  in  the  reading-room  and  perused  the 
morning  papers  over  his  consoling  Havana,  and  Magdalen 
dashed  off  a  few  brief  lines  to  nurse  Rachel. 

She  was  well,  she  had  heard  from  VVillio,  she  expected  to 
return  to  Golden  Willows  in  a  fortnight— that  was  all.  She 
folded  and  sealed  the  note,  and  then  arose  and  dressed  for  the 
walk.  She  looked  at  herself  in  a  sort  of  weary  wonder,  as 
she  put  on  her  bonnet. 

"  How  pale  and  thin  1  have  grown  in  two  brief  days!**  she 
thought.  "  Where  is  all  the  bloom  and  beauty  he  used  to 
praise  now?-' 

**  Half  past  ten,  my  love,**  George  cried,  briskly  opening 
the  door.  **  All  ready?  If  the  wind  and  sunshine  this  morn- 
ing don't  bring  back  your  lost  roses,  then  nothing  will.  '* 

They  descended  the  stairs  and  passed  out  of  the  hotel. 
Magdalen  gave  one  sweeping,  hurried  glance  around.  Many 
people  were  passing,  and  there,  on  the  curb-stone,  stood  a 
yoang  man,  his  hands  thrust  deep  in  his  coat  pockets,  his  felt 
hat  pulled  over  his  eyes,  a  cigar  between  his  lips — aimless 
and  alone. 

**  My  glove  has  become  unfastened,  George,**  Mrs.  Bar- 
stone  said,  her  clear  tones  quite  audible  where  this  loiterer 
stood;  "fasten  it,  please.** 

George  obeyed — his  face,  as  he  secured  ,the  button,  turned 
directly  toward  the  solitary  young  man  on  the-  curb-stone. 

**  There,  my  dear!*'  he  said;  and  drawing  the  little  hand 
within  his  arm,  he  led  her  away. 

It  was  a  lovely  midwinter  morning — the  sunshine  sparkling, 
the  wind  frosty  but  not  piercing,  the  stores  at  their  gayest, 
and  Broadway  filled  with  people. 

In  spite  of  herself,  Magdalen's  spirits  rose.  What  if,  after 
all,  there  had  been  some  great  mistake?  What  ii!  Willie 
should  say,  **  Your  husband  is  not  Maurice  Langley,**  in  spite 
of  everything? 

You  see  we  luill  hope  against  hope,  all  of  us,  where  our 
nearest  and  dearest  are  concerned. 

The  lost  color  flushed  back  into  her  cheeks,  the  lost  brill- 
iance into  her  eyes.  She  laughed  once  more;  she  chatted  in 
the  exuberance  of  her  new  and  desperate  hope. 

"Thank  God!**  George  said,  in  his  faithful  heart;  **oh, 
tbftak  God!    I  knew  it  could  not  last!*' 


Magdalen's  vow. 


127 


The  newly  wedded  pair  did  not  return  to  the  hotel.  Down 
Broadway  thoy  encountered  Mrs.  Moreland,  in  her  elegant 
barouche,  and  that  lady  drew  up  and  insisted  upon  their  get- 
ting in. 

**  You  shall  dine  and  spend  the  evening  with  me/'  Mrs. 
Moreland  said.  **  1  was  on  my  way  to  the  St.  Nicholas.  My 
dear  Mrs.  Barstone,  not  a  word  of  excuse.  Oh,  your  dress? 
Nonsense!  We  will  be  the  merest  family  party;  your  dress 
is  all  that  could  be  desired.     Home,  James." 

Mrs.  Moreland's  family  party,  however,  turned  out  to  be 
rather  a  large  gathering,  and  Magdalen  spent  a  very  gay  and 
pleasant  evening. 

•  Dr.  Philip  was  present,  late  as  usual,  and  pleading  his  pro- 
fessional engagements  as  an  excuse. 

**  People  ivill  have  colic,  and  cramps,  and  sudden  fits  of 
apoplexy  at  the  most  unreasonable  and  unseasonable  hours," 
he  said,  plaintively.  *'  We  physicians  are  martyrs — only  they 
won't  canonize  us".  How  are  you,  George,  and  how's  the 
pretty  Magdalen?  That  nasty  headache  all  gone?  Ah,  1  see 
it  has!" 

He  sauntered  over  to  where  she  sat,  looking  very  bright  and 
pretty,  talking  animatedly  with  her  artist  admirer,  Mr, 
Hollis. 

She  glanced  up  at  her  husband's  cousin  with  her  animated 
glance  and  smile. 

**  No  need  to  ask  how  you  are,  Mrs.  Barstone,"  the  doctor 
said.  •  **  Your  headache  of  yesterday  is  quite  gone,  1  see.  I 
knew  it  by  George's  radiant  face,  the  moment  I  came  in." 

He  lingered  by  her  side  until  the  hour  of  departure.  There 
was  a  singular  fascination  for  him  in  this  fair-haired  bride  of 
his  cousin — this  gentle-looking  girl,  who  could  be  so  darkly 
moody  at  times,  and  who  had  avowed  her  life  to  a  wild  and 
desperate  purpose  of  revenge. 

•'  *'  She  doesn't  look  much  like  one  of  the  furies,"  Dr.  Bar- 
atone  thought,  watchnig  her  glowing  face  with  half-closed, 
piercing  eyes;  '*  but  there  is  an  old  adage  about  still  water, 
and  your  quiet  little  women  are  the  very  deuce  when  aroused. 
That  pretty,  smiling  mouth  is  a  very  determined  mouth,  and 
those  bright  blue  eyes  can  flash  steely  fire  upon  occasions,  I 
dare  swear.  A  man  might  have  a  safer  enemy  than  you,  my 
pretty  Mrs.  Barstone." 

Magdalen  was  in  very  high  spirits  when,  some  time  after 
midnight,  she  drove  home  by  her  husband's  side.  The  sud- 
den and  unreasonable  rebound  from  despair  to  hope  sent  a 


1 


n\ 


1V8 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


hysterical  glow  of  excitement  to  her  fuce— a  feverish  ring  in 
her  laugh  and  voice.  • 

How  beautiful  tho  night  was!  How  brilliant  the  moon! 
How  countless  the  stars!  How  pictnresouo  Broadway  looked 
under  the  moonlight  and  gas-light!  Hovy  pleasant  the  even- 
ing had  been!  How  poor  Fanny  vvoidd  enjoy  herself  here! 
How  much  his  cousin  Piiil  improved  upon  acquaintance!  He 
had  been  quite  entertaining  to-night;  he  had  made  her  laugh 
over  droll  stories,  so  drolly  told;  he  spoke  with  such  deep 
affection  of  Aunt  Lydia!  Oh!  she  liked  him  ever  so  much 
better  than  at  first! 

So  she  ran  on — feverishly  talkative  and  excited  by  the  sud-, 
den  reaction  she  had  undergone.  She  looked  half  fearfully, 
half  eagerly,  as  they  entered  their  room,  for  a  note  from 
Willie;  but  nou<>  awaited  her.  She  was  to  have  that  night  to 
hope  and  to  sleep  once  more. 

**  I  will  hear  from  him  to-day,*'  was*  her  first  waking 
thought.  *'  Oh,  Heaven  grant  1  may  hear  the  news  I  hop© 
for!'' 

She  went  down  to  breakfast  with  George — happy  George 
once  more. 

When  they  returned  upstairs,  the  expected  letter  lay  con- 
spicuous upon  the  table.  Magdalen  pounced  upon  it  in  an 
instant,  but  not  before  George  had  seen  tho  superscription,  in 
the  same,  big  masculine  fist  as  before. 

**  Halloo!"  he  said,  **  another  letter  from  your  unknown 
friend  in  the  city.  Why  the  deuce  doesn't  he  come  to  see 
you,  instead  of  writing  you  mysterious  letters,  Magdalen?" 

Perhaps  Magdalen  did  not  hear;  she  made  no  reply.  She 
carried  the  letter,  as  before,  into  the  inner  chamber,  and 
closed  the  door  after  her. 

**  Hang  it!"  thought  George,  sitting  sulkily  down  by  the 
window;  '*  confound  it!  it's  a  little  too  bad,  by  George! 
What  business  has  Magdalen  to  receive  letters  from  other  men 
and  refuse  to  let  me  see  them?  I'm'  not  a  jealous-minded 
fellow  in  the  main;  but  if  this  sort  of  thing  goes  on  much 
longer,  I'll  know  the  reason  why,  by  Jove!"  .       ^ 

In  the  bedroom,  Magdalen,  with  the  sealed  letter  in  her 
hand,  stood  for  a  moment  gazing  at  it,  with  a  sick  feeling  of 
dread.  It  might  be  her  reprieve  or  her  death-warrant — who 
could  tell? 

Once,  twice,  she  tried  to  open  it,  and  stopped;  then,  with  a 
swift  impulse  of  desperation,  she  tore  off  the  enyeIot>e  and 
iwad: 


IIAGDALEN^H    VOW, 


UM> 


:h  • 


**  Maodalen,— For  God's  sake,  don't  say  that  th 
saw  with  you 


thi 


the 


have 


man 
mur 


ried! 


IS  morning  is  tne  man  you 
That  man  is  Maurice  Langley!  1  feol  half  mad  with  rago  and 
fear.  The  villain!  how  dare  he  do  it?  Meet  me  to-day;  I 
must  see  you.  From  one  o'clock  until  five  I  will  be  in  front 
of  the  Academy  of  Music.  Meet  mo  without  fail.  Come 
yeiled  and  aldne.  Willie." 

'  -  '  r«      -',     .    ■     1  I  '  '  •         ' 

The  letter  dropped  from  her  fingers —the  fatal  letter  that 
destroyed  her  last  hope.  She  slid  on  her  knees;  her  face  fell 
upon  her  clasped  hands. 

"Let  me  die!"  she  cried;  **  let  me  die  before  1  ever  see 
him  again!    Oh,  God,  be  merciful  and  let  me  die!" 

It  was  a  wicked  and  desperate  prayer — wicked  and  desper- 
ate as  the  purpose  of  her  life.  She  knelt  there  in  a  dreadful, 
blind  despair,  and  neither  on  earth  nor  in  heaven  could  this 
most  wretched  wife  look  for  hope  or  help. 

How  long  she  lay  there  she  never  knew;  she  was  past  taking 
note  of  time.     A  tap  at  the  door  aroused  her. 

**  Magdalen,"  George's  impatient  voice  said,  *'  are  you 
asleep?  If  so,  be  good  enough  to  say  so,  and  I  will  go  in  and 
awaken  you." 

Magdalen  arose.  Despair  might  come,  but  death  would 
not,  at  her  bidding.  She  opened  the  door  and  admitted  her 
husband. 

"  Have  you  forgotten  our  proposed  little  excursion  to ? 

My  dear,  what  new  trouble  has  happened?  You  have  had 
bad  news?" 

**  I  have  changed  my  mind  about  the  excursion,"  Ma^^^lalen 
answered,  turning  away.  *'  I — I  do  not  feel  well  enough  to 
go.  But  that  need  not  detain  you.  You  promised  Mi'.s. 
Moreland,  and  they  will  excuse  me. " 

*'  Very  likely;  but  1  shall  not  ask  them.  As  if  1  could 
leave  you  alone  and  ill!  What  is  it,  my  dear?  That  wretched 
.  headache  again?  or  did  your  letter  contain  bad  news?  It  was 
'  not  from  your  nurse,  1  think." 

**  No;  it  was  not  from  my  nurse."  ♦ 

**  1  was  not  aware. you  had  any  other  correspondent,  my 
dear.     From  some  one  in  the  city,  was  it  not?" 

**It  was."  'V 

Her  hand  clinched  over  it  as  she  spoke. 

**  From  some  man?"  ^'s>f 


44 


Yes. 


ft 


*'  Magdalen,  you  will  show  me  that  letter,  will  you  not?    It 
JB  not  possible  you  can  have  any  secrets  from  me?'' 


iff 


■>  i 


! 
i 


J 


^ 


^4^ 


130 


Magdalen's  vow. 


"sm^ 


**  It  is  (luHe  possible,  Mr.  Barstone.  I  dare  sav,  if  the 
truth  were  known,  you  have  more  than  one  from  mer' 

**Mag(lulou!'' 

8ho  hiuffhod  recklessly.  With  that  miserable,  ceaseless  an- 
guish at  her  heart,  she  scarcely  knew,  scarcely  cared  what  she 
said  or  did. 

**  That  absurd,  old-fashioned  custom  of  husbands  and  wives 
telling  each  other  everything  is  obsolete,  like  other  old-fashion- 
ed customs,  in  this  enlightened  nineteenth  century.  You  keep 
your  own  counsel  George,  and  1,  for  the  future,  will  keen 
mine.  You  had  better  go  with  the  Morelands  to-day,  and 
keep  your  word.  You  are  kind  to  propose  staying  with  me. 
but  I  assure  you  that  I  should  prefer  being  alone.  '* 

George  was  very  pale — very,  very  grave.  . 

*'  Magdalen,  I  beg  of  you,  show  me  that  note!" 

**  I  will  not  show  you  that  note,  Goorge!" 

There  was  a  pause.  '     •' 

**  It  is  a  secret,  then?"  he  asked,  huskily. 

**  It  is  a  secret." 

**  Tell  me,  at  least,  who  is  this  man  wl. .  writes  to  you? 
Tell  me  his  name." 

**  Not  even  his  name.  It  is  quite  useless,  your  asking  me 
questions  on  this  subject;  1  will  not  tell  you." 

She  tore  the  note  into  fragments  as  she  spoke,  and  let  them 
flutter  out  of  the  window.  She  felt  as  though  she  hated  the 
man  at  her  side,  who  could  look  so  innocent  and  be  so  guilty. 

"Magdalen!  Magdalen  I  what  has  come  between  us?"  he 
cried.  **  Do  you  know  that  you  are  driving  me  wild?  Why, 
why  did  you  ever  marry  me?" 

'*  Because  I  was  blind  and  mad!  Oh,  Heaven  above!  so 
blind,  so  mad!" 

She  wrung  her  hands  with  that  wail  of  despair.  George 
Barstone  staggered  like  a  man  who  had  received  a  blow. 

**  Blind  and  mad!"  he  whispered—**  blind  and  mad!  Then 
you  never  loved  me,  Magdalen?" 

**  Loved  you!"  she  cried.  She  rose  up  and  turned  upon 
him  like  a  hunted  animal.  **  1  loved  you  so  well  that  1  was 
in  heaven,  not  on  earth,  when  you  asked  me  to  be  your  wife. 
Loved  you!  Oh,  you  played  your  part  well!  Who  could  help 
loving  your  My  God!  why  did  I  not  die  on  my  wedding- 
day?" 

Magdalen  broke  out  into  hysterical  sobbing,  her  hands 
clasped  over  her  tortured  face.  It  was  only  for  an  instant. 
She  looked  up  at  him  again^  with  that  desperate,  hunted 
glanoe  of  some  animal  at  bay  in  her  eyes. 


n- 
he 


lep 


.i 


MAODALEN'fl    VOW. 


131 


'  "  Will  you  go?"  she  said.  **  Will  you  lenve  mo?  Whaf.  U 
past  is  past,  and  can  not  be  undone.  Lot  me  alone — don't 
drive  me  frantic  with  quoRtions.  1  have  enough  to  bear  with- 
out that.*' 

He  tried  to  spoak.     She  would  not  listen  to  a  word.  ' 

*'  For  pity's  sake,  lot  us  say  no  more  about  it.  Keep  the 
promise  you  made  last  night — go  with  Mrs.  Moroland  and  her 
party.  If  you  have  one  generous  feoh'ng  loft  for  mo  in  your 
heart,  be  merciful  and  leave  me|klone.'' 

**  Uo  you  really  wish  it — really  wish  I  should  go  to  this  ex- 
cursion without  you?" 

**  I  really  wish  it.     A  promise  is  a  promise.     Go!" 

George  Barstone  turned  on  his  heel  and  approached  tho 
door. 

^  **  I  will  rid  you  of  my  presence,  Magualen,  since  you  do- 
sire  it  so  much,  but  1  will  not  go  upon  this  excursion  withoufc 
you.  You  may  have  a  motive  in  thus  wishing  to  send  me  out; 
of  the  city  for  the  day.  But  though  I  remain,  have  no  fear; 
I  will  not  play  the  spy.  If  you  have  any  friend  whom  you  wish 
to  receive  here  privately,  receive  that  friend  by  all  means.  I 
may  doubt  your  love,  but  never  your  wifely  loyalty.  Tho 
day  that  sees  me  doubt  tliat  sees  us  part  forever!" 

He  quitted  the  room  with  the  words.  An  instant  later, 
and  he  had  taken  his  hat  and  quitted  the  house  also.  Magda- 
len saw  him  pass  under  her  window  and  disappear  an^d  the 
throng.  For  the  first  time  she  had  thoroughly  su  3ceeded  in 
arousing  and  angering  him. 

Hours  passed.     Within  and  without  life  was  at  its  busiest 

and  brightest;  many  footsteps  echoed  in  the  passages  withoufc; 

doors  opened  and  shut;  merry  voices  and  gay  laughter  reached 

her.      But  she  sat  there  more  utterly  alone,   more  utterly 

lonely,  than  if  the  great  hotel  had  been  the  heart  of  some 

primeval  forest.     She  was  learning  the  bitter  truth  of  the  old 

liaes: 

**  And  to  be  wroth  with  one  we  love 
Doth  work  like  madness  on  the  brain. " 

So  long  she  lay  there,  in  her  trance  of  torpid  suffering,  that 
at  last,  worn  out  by  watching,  she  fell  fast  asleep.  Do  not 
condemned  men  sleep  on  that  last  awful  night  that  precedes 
the  more  awful  to-morrow?  Sleep,  the  merciful,  took  her 
and  held  her  for  hours. 

The  short  winter  day  was  wearing  fast  to  twilight  when  she 
awoke.  She  started  up  in  affright  and  looked  at  her  watch. 
Had  she  overslept  the  appointed  time?  No;  it  was  not  yet 
fiye,  and  the  distance  to  the  place  of  tryst  short.     She  threw 


i 


(^ 


"y 


? 


!• 


133 


MAGDALBK  S    VOW. 


on  her  mautle  and  bonnet^  fastened  a  close  mask  of  black 
lace  over  her  face,  and  departed  on  her  errand. 

The  frosty  January  gloaming,  all  gemmed  with  stars,  lay 
like  a  blue  veil  of.  mist  over  the  thronged  streets  as  she  flitted 
rapidly  along.         i;*  .  .        .' 

Where  had  George  been  all  day?  she  wondered;  and  would 
he  return  to  the  hotel  before  herself,  and  ask  more  questions 
impossible  to  answer? 

As  she  drew  near  the  stately  building  on  Fourteenth  Street, 
a  young  man,  slouching  idly  before  it,  with  his  hands  thrust 
deep  in  his  jacket-pockets,  started  forward  to  meet  her. 

Am  1  late,  Willie?"  she  asked,  panting  with  the  rapidity  . 
of  her  walk.     **  1  could  not  help  it;  1  fell  asleep."    - 

**  Oh,  you  fell  asleep,  did  you?  You've  grown  aristocratic, 
.1  suppose,  and  turned  day  into  night,  like  the  rest  of  them. 
If  people  will  enjoy  themselves  at  the  opera  and  the  theater, 
and  balls  on  Fifth  Avenue  every  night,  1  suppose  it  is  to  be 
expected  they  will  sleep  all  next  day.  Still,  1  think,  after 
the  news  1  sent  you,  Mrs.  Barstone,  you  might  have  strained 
a  point  and  kept  awake,  and  come  here  earlier.  It's  not 
quite  so  pleasant  loafing  about  the  streets  on  a  January  after- 
noon, in  cracked  boots  and  threadbare  coat,  as  in  the  luxuri- 
ous chambers  of  the  St.  Nicholas.  I  suppose,  then,  the  gen- 
tleman "  (with  sneeiiug  emphasis)  **  whom  I  saw  with  you 
yesteiday  is  not  your  husband,  after  all?  You,  improved  as 
you  are,  no  doubt,  by  your  entrance  into  tiptop  society — even 
you  would  hardly  take  the  news  so  coolly." 


"Your  news  was  no  news  to  me,"  Magdalen  said,  with 
that  ouiet  that  comes  of  great  despair;  **  and  the  man  you 
saw  w'th  me  is  my  husband." 

Willie  Allward  stared  at  his  sister  in  genuine  horror. 

"  Good  God!  Magdalen,  then  you  have  married  Maurice 
Langley!" 

**  I  have  married  Maurice  Langley.  Don't  speak  so  loudly, 
Willie — don't  look  so  wild — people  are  staring." 

But  the  brother  still  gazed  at  her,  as  though  he  could 
neither  believe  his  ears  nor  eyes.  * 

**  My  Heaven!"  he  said,  **  she  has  married  Maurice  Lang- 
ley, and  she  takes  it  like  this!  Her  sister's  murderer,  her  fa- 
ther's murderer,  her  brother's  tempter  and  destroyer— she  has 
married  him,  and  she  takes  it  like  this!'* 

*'  Like  this!"  Magdalen  repeated,  with  a  wild  laugh. 
**  How  would  you  have  me  take  it,  Willie?  Did  you  want  me 
to  come  to  you  with  hair  dishe^'cled  and  my  eyes  in  fine 
frenzy  rolling,  crying  forth  my  wrongs  on  the  house- tops? 


MAGDALEN'S   VOW. 


131 


Like  this!  Why,  Willie  Allward,  I  tell  you  I  love  that  man 
— do  you  hear? — hve  him  with  my  whole  heart  and  soul, 
knowing  him  to  be  all  you  say!  I  tell  you  we  are  under  a 
curse,  all  of  us,  and  God  has  surely  forgotten  me,  or  I  would 
have  fallen  dead  on  my  wedding-day!" 

**  Ah,  you  can  feel!  I  am  glad  of  that.  Htjre,  take  my 
arm,  and  come  along.  As  you  say,  people  are  itaring  at  us. 
Let  us  talk  this  bad  business  over  Quietly,  if  we  can.  How 
long  is  it  since  you  first  knew  the  truth?" 

'*  Since  the  day  1  was  married.  Rachel  o^me  to  the  church, 
and  recognized  in  George  Barsfcone  the  man  she  had  known, 
four  years  ago,  as  Maurice  Langley.  She  sent  for  me  and 
told  me,  but  I  tell  you  1  was  resting  under  a  curse  thai  left 
me  blind;  1  would  not  believe  her." 

**  Well,  and  how  have  you  been  oonvinoed  sinoe?" 

**  Willie,  do  you  remember  a  mark  Maurioe  Langley  had 
tattooed  upon  his  left  arm — a  circlet  of  leaves,  a  heart  pierced 
by  a  dagger,  and  the  initial  letter  *  B '?  Rachel  told  me  al 
if  long  before  I  thought  of  being  marriidd,  but  it  had  entirely 
slipped  my  memory  until  three  days  aga  It  flashed  bacK 
upon  me  like  lightning,  and,  while  he  Alep^  I  kocj&ed  a^  his 
arm,  and  beheld  the  fatal  mark." 

Willie  Allward  drew  a  long  breath.  .'. 

**  I  remember!  I  remember!  Then  the  matter  is  beyond  a 
doubt.  Do  you  know  that,  though  I  recognised  I^ngley  at 
first  sight,  yet  since  I  have  had  doubts,  grave  doubts  of  his 
identity  with  the  man  accompanying  your  Langley,  when  I 
knew  him,  over  four  years  oack,  was  much  slighter  and 
sallower  than  he  is  now,  and  his  hair  and  mustache  were  jet 
black — dyed,  of  course.  Now  he  wears  no  mustache,  and 
you  know  how  the  loss  of  one  alters  the  expression  of  a  man's 
face.  But  the  tattooing  places  the  matter  beyond  a  doubt. 
1  recollect  the  mark  perfectly;  it  was  most  peculiar,  and 
could  never  be  effaced.  And  now,  Magdalen,  what  is  to  be 
done?" 

'*  Hunt  him  down!"  Magdalen  answered,  between  her  set 
teeth.  **  The  blow  that  strikes  him  will  kill  me;  but,  come 
misery  or  death,  I  will  keep  my  vow!  Laura  shall  be 
avenged!" 

**  Then  I  may  look  to  you  for  help  without  fail?  1  began 
to  fear  I  would  have  you  against  me,  too,  now  that  you  are 
his  wife."        <    -     -       ^  :  ; 

"  Because  1  am  his  wife,  1  will  aid  you  to  the  last.  How 
flure  be  do  it?  how  dare  ho  do  it?    1  told  him  my  story-rjl 


A 


134 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


told  of  the  purpose  of  my  life— and  he  dared  to  marry  me! 
Hunt  him  down,  Willie,  if  you  can,  the  false,  false  traitor!" 

**  Husii-h-h!  Not  quite  so  loud  on  the  street.  If  I  can? 
Oh,  1  can;  have  no  fear  of  that  I  I  have  Mr.  Maurice  Lang- 
ley  as  completely  in  my  power  as  ever  one  man  had  another. 
'!rhe  law  won't  touch  him  for  his  crimes  against  Laura  and 
me,  but  it  will  for — " 

**  For  what,  brother?'' 

"Never  mind  to-night,  Magdalen;  don't  be  in  a  hurry  to 
hear.it.  It's  something  you  won't  like  to  hear— something  a 
rttle  worse  than  anything  you've  heard  yet."      • 

**  Worse!"  the  girl  said,  incredulously. 

**  Yes,  young  lady,  a  great  deal  worse — something  that  will 
send  OJir  fine  gentleman,  until  his  hair  is  gray,  up  to  Sing 
Sing.  No,  I  won't  tell  you  to-night.  I  havou't  my  plans 
quite  matured  yet,  and  I  have  another  peruon  also  to  con- 
sult." 

**  Another  person,  Willie?    Who  can  it  be?" 

**  Some  one  whose  acquaintance  you  will  have  the  pleasure 
of  making,  also,  before  you  are  much  older,  my  good  sister. 
How  have  you  acted  since  you  found  this  out?  In  such  a 
Way,  I  suppose,  that  the  fellow  must  have  seen  that. his  game 
was  up  from  the  first.     It  would  be  just  like  you  women." 

**  Yes,  he  has  seen  it,"  Magdalen  said,  wearily.  **  I  can't 
play  the  hypocrite,  Willie;  I  can't  stab  in  the  dark,  and  smile 
while  1  stab.  He  has  seen,  plainly  enough,  that  I  have  dis- 
covered his  dreadful  crimes;  but  he  plays  the  part  of  uncon- 
scious innocence  so  well  that,  if  there  were  the  faintest  glim- 
mer of  hope — the  faintest  possibility  that  we  could  be  mis- 
taken—1  would  not,  I  coidd  not  believe  him  guilty!" 

**  I  dare  say  not,"  with  a  short,  scornful  laugh.  "  You 
don't  wano  to  believe  him  guilty,  do  you?  1  only  wonder 
that  you  will  believe  him  guilty,  as  it  is!  You  women  are 
the  most  obstinate  and  besotted  fools  under  heaven  where  men 
are  concerned!  You  fall  in  love  with  one  of  them,  and  all 
earth  and  all  the  realms  above  wouldn't  convince  you  your 
idol  was  other  than  an  angel  in  peg-top  pants.  You  love  this 
youn^  hang-dog  villain,  and  I  suppose  he  pretends  to  love 
you.'^ 

**  It  is  no  pretense,"  Magdalen  answered,  in  the  same  weary 
tone.     **  He  does  love  me."  »    , 

Willie  laughed  in  unutterable  scorn. 

**  Yes;  he  loved  Laura,  too.  I  wonder  what  would  have 
convinced  her,  in  those  first  days,  that  he  didn't  love  her? 
Are  you  to  be  trusted^  Magdalen?  or  am  I  to  work  alone? 


Magdalen's  vow. 


1^5 


Will  you,  in  one  of  your  womanish,  impulsive  fits,  throw 
yourself  on  his  neck,  some  day,  and  tell  him  all,  and  make  a 
lool  of  yourself  and  a  mess  of  the  whole  thing?  Or  will  you 
aid  me?  will  you  keep  on  friendly  terms  with  him,  and  lull 
him  to  security,  while  1  perfect  my  scheme  of  revenge?  An- 
swer, once  for  all — are  you  to  be  trusted,  or  are  you  not?" 

He  spoke  fiercely  and  rapidly,  clutching  her  arm,  his  eyes 
flashing. 

*'  You  may  trast  me,"  hiu  sister  an&wered,  firmly.  **  On 
the  road  we  are  treading  there  is  no  turning  back.  J  will 
keep  my  vow!  I  will  have  my  revenge  upon  Maurice  Lang- 
ley  1" 

They  were  passing  a  corner  as  she  said  this,  unconsciously 
raising  her  voice.  Two  men  stood  talking  in  an  open  door, 
and  one  of  them  paused  suddenly  in  what  he  was  saying,  as 
those  ringing  words  met  his  ear,  and  turned  around. 

The  light  of  the  street-lamp  at  the  corner  fall  full  upon  the 
pale  face  of  Magdalen  Barstone.  She  had  flung  back  her  veil 
m  her  excitement — he  saw  her  as  plainly  as  though  it  were 
broad  day. 

'*  Pretty  girl,  Barstone!"  the  other  gentleman  said,  laugh- 
ing.    **  Do  you  know  her?" 

"Yes,  I  know  her,"  Dr.  Philip  Barstone  replied,  deliber- 
ately; *'  and  1  didn't  expect  to  see  her  here  and  at  this  time 
of  evening.  I'll  call  around  again  to-morrow,  Fletcher,  to 
see  your  wife.     Good -night." 

He  ran  down  the  steps  abruptly.  His  light  wagon  stood  on 
the  street;  he  sprung  in  and  drove  slowly  down  thd  street, 
keeping  the  pair  on  the  sidewalk  well  in  view. 

They  never  once  noticed  the  watcher  on  the  street,  they 
were  too  entirely  absorbed  in  their  vendetta;  and  he,  of 
course,  could  not  hear  a  word  they  said. 

**  Where's  that  moon-struck  idiot,  George,  1  wonder," 
thought  the  doctor,  "  that  he  lets  his-  peerless  treasure  walk 
about  the  streets  of  New  York  after  nightfall  with  disreputa- 
ble young  men?  When  he  left  me,  an  hour  ago,  for  home,*! 
don't  think  he  expected  to  find  little  golden-locks  taking 
nocturnal  rambles.  Of  course,  the  fellow's  the  returned  con- 
vict. Ah,  they're  going  to  part!  I'll  keep  him  in  view,  I 
think — it  may  be  useful  to  know  where  he  lives." 

They  partod  where  they  had  met — in  front  of  the  Academy. 
The  listener  in  the  wagon  caught,  as  he  drew  boldly  close  to 
the  curb-stone,  the  young  man's  last  remark: 

**  Go  to  Washington  for  a  week,  if  he  wishes  it— make 
yourself  as  agreeable  as  you  can— as  if  yon  suspected  uothingi 


_. 


13^ 


1IAQ1)ALEK*S    VOW. 


you  understand?  Things  done  in  a  hurry  are  never  well 
done.  I  mean  to  work  slowly  and  surely  in  this  matter. 
You  may  send  me  some  money  to-morrow — thirty  or  forty 
dollars.  I  pick  up  a  tritle  at  odd  jobs;  but  in  a  thing  like 
this  a  fellow  can't  work  without  stamps.  Tell  him  it's  for 
new  dresses,  ear-rings,  bonnets — anything;  he'll  give  it  to 
you  fast  enough.  Isn't  this  the  honey-moon?"  he  laughed 
harshly.  **  Good-night,  Magi  I  won't  say  pleasant  dreams, 
because  I  think  they're  hardly  likely  to  be  pleasant.  It  won't 
do  for  me  to  be  seen  with  you,  you  know.  You  can  find  your 
way  back,  I  suppose?" 

Yes,  yes — 1  have  lingered  too  long  as  it  is.  I  should  have 
been  back  before  George.  I'll  send  you  the  money  to-mor- 
row, Willie,  1  have  more  than  that  of  my  own — 1  could  not 
ask  him  for  it;  so  make  it  last  as  long  as  you  can.  Good- 
night!" 

She  walked  swiftly  and  lightly  away,  and  Willie  AUward 
slouched  more  slowly  in  the  opposite  direction.       ;  .  •     ; 

He  halted  a  car  on  Third  Avenue  presently,  and  was  taken 
a  long* way  down-town.  But  the  doctor,  in  his  gig,  followed 
perse veringly,  and  saw  him  get  out  after  half  an  hour's  ride. 

He  followed  him  to  an  obscure  street  close  by  the  river, 
where  tall  tenement  houses  and  reeking  stables  cast  weird 
shadows  in  the  moonlight.  He  entered  one  of  the  shabbiest 
of  these  shabby  dwellings,  and  disappeared. 

"Earthed!*'  said  Dr.  Philip,  smiling  grimly  all  by  him- 
self, as  he  trotted  briskly  away.  '*  I  shall  know  this  street 
and  that  house  again  without  difficulty.  What  plot  are  these 
two  hatching?  Has  Magdalen  All  ward  found  Maurice  Lang- 
ley,  or  does  she  only  thiJik  she  has  found  him?^* 


)» 


CHAPTER  XVin. 


t    i:!'    "'".' 


«-r' 


JN  WHICH  DOCTOR  PHILIP  DOES  HIS  DUTY. 


Mr.  George  Barstone  having  lost  his  temper  and  left  his 
bride  in^  a  very  unbridegroom-like,  not  to  say  unchristian 
frame  of  mind,  it  would  naturally  be  supposed  passed  a  very 
dismal  and  disagreeable  day. 

Nothing  of  the  sort,  however.  Mr.  Barstone  spent  a  very 
jolly  afternoon,  and  enjoyed  himself  exceedingly. 

For  one  thing,  he  was  of  that  sanguine,  elastic  tempera- 
ment that  throws  off  trouble  as  leaves  throw  off  dew-drops; 
for  another,  the  sunshine  and  frosty  winds  were  exhilarating 
as  son.e  rare  wine;  and  for  a  third,  George  called  upon  some 
very  old  friends,  whom,  in  his  devotion  to  his  f ak  young  wifxjj 


Magdalen's  vow. 


137 


for 

to 

led 


he  had  found  no  time  to  look  up  hitherto— pleasant  fellows 
all — artists,  newspaper  men — dwellers  all  in  the  tents  of  Bo- 
hemia, and  all  more  or  less  delighted  to  see  their  old  com- 
panion. 

**  The  very  man  of  men  I  wanted  most  to  see!'*  one  literary 
gentleman  exclaimed,  wringing  the  Milford  lawyer's  hand. 

1  never  knew  you  were  married  and  in  the  city  imtil  yester- 
day, when  Phil  dropped  in  to  tell  us.  How  well  the  fellow's 
looking — getting  stouter,  by  Jove!  And  they  say  you've  ihar- 
ried  a  beauty,  old  boy.  Ah!  I  recollect  you  always  had  an 
inflammable  heart  and  an  eye  for  a  pretty  face.  Hollis  raves 
about  her.  Don't  know  Hollis.^  Artist,  you  know — mad 
about  fair  women,  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair,  and  dead  in  love 
with  your  wife.  'Pon  my  word  he  is,  George!  And  you'll 
dine  with  me,  won't  you,  dear  old  boy?  And,  oh,  by  the  bye, 
that  reminds  me.  Lefarge  is  going  to  get  married.  Hemem- 
ber  Lefarge,  don't  you? — sculptor.  Clever  fellow,  and  would 
be  much  cleverer  if  he  wasn't  so  deucedly  handsome.  He'a 
been  the  pet  of  the  petticoats  since  he  left  off  long  robes,  1 
believe;  and  his  Grecian  nose  and  long  eyelashes  have  made 
his  fortune  at  last.  He's  picked  up  what  better  men,  like 
myself,  have  been  all  our  lives  hunting  in  vain — a  hundred- 
thousand-dollar  heiress!  However,  Lefarge  is  going  to  give 
ns  a  last  symposium  to-night — a  sort  of  farewell  feast,  you 
understand — before  he  shakes  the  dust  of  Bohemia  off  his 
highly  respectable  boots,  and  goes  in  for  the  bloated  aristo- 
cracy. And  you  must  come,  old  fellow.  Lefarge  begged 
me,  only  this  morning,  to  hunt  you  up,  and  insist  upon  it. 
Phil's  coming,  and  a  dozen  more — not  a  stupid  man  among 
them.  1  dare  say  you'd  rather  be  with  the  little  beauty 
you've  married;  but,  then,  poor  Lefarge — on  the  brink  of 
that  unknown  world,  upon  which  you  so  bravely  have  sprung 
— take  compassion  upon  him  and  come." 

"  Perhaps  I  may,  Dick,"  he  said,  **  although  I  promised 
Magdalen  to  take  her  to  the  opera  to-night.  At  the  old 
work,  I  cee,"  he  motioned  with  his  cigar  toward  a  drift  of 
manuscript  strewn  wildly  over  the  floor.  **  How's  litera- 
ture?" .._  ,  ,   , 

**  Lively — uncommonly  so — never  was  so  busy  in  my  life. 
Come  along  to  Delmonioo's  and  dine  mth  me  once  more." 

He  led  George  away,  and  the  two  friends  dined  sumptuous- 
ly; but  while  he  listened  and  eat,  the  Milford  lawyer's  thoughts 
wandered  off  many  times  to  his  bride. 

What  was  she  doing?  How  would  she  meet  him  when  he 
came  back? 


<i 


n' 


I- 
.,1 


r'l 


138 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


llis  literary  friend  found  him  unsociably  absent  and  <ft>- 
irait,  and  released  him  as  they  sauntered  out  smoking  their 
after-dinner  cigar. 

**  When  a  man  asks  you  the  same  question  thrice  over,  and* 
you  never  hear  him,  it's  high  time  he  let  you  go.  You  want 
to  go  back  with  your  wife,  I  suppose?  1  don't  think  Lefarge 
will  be  quite  so  far  gone  as  that  three  weeks  after  matrimony. 
Ask. her  if  she  won't  please  let  you  off  duty  to-night,  for 
once  in  a  way.  Lefarge  will  never  forgive  her  if  she  doesn't. 
And  so  good-bye,  my  dear  George.  We  meet  again  at  Philip- 
pi!" 

His  literary  friend — a  gentleman  who  writes  his  name  high 
among  the  story-telline  Bedouins  of  his  tribe — sauntered  away; 
but  George,  though  liberated,  did  not  return  where  his  heart 
and  treasure  were. 

Had  he  not  promised  to  rid  her  of  his  presence  for  the 
day? — and  it  was  only  five  o'clock  as  yet. 

So  Mr.  Barstone  strolled  along  Broadway,  and  was  another 
unit  in  that  busy  thoroughfare,  and  met  two  or  three  men  he 
knew,  among  others  the  lucky  Lefarge  himself — a  most  re- 
markably handsome  young  man.  i> 

**  What!  George?  What!  Barstone?  My  dear  fellow,  I 
am  delighted  to  see  you!  I  have  just  come  from  the  St. 
Nicholas,  found  you  were  out,  and  left  my  card  and  an  invi- 
tation for  to-night.  Have  you  seen  Phil  or  Tompkins?  1 
begged  them  to  hunt  you  up." 

**  I  have  just  parted  from  Tompkins.  He  told  me  of  your 
good  fortune.  My  dear  Lofirge,  permit  me  to  congratulate 
ycu!"  ■•■*"  ■"       '   "'  ■'■■'.  s^-' 

**  And  you'll  make  one  of  us  to-night?  I'll  take  no  deniaL 
Oh,  nunsense!  Phil  tells  me  she's  the  most  sensible  of  her 
sex,  and  the  most  indulgent;  and  I  know  you  go  out.  Haven^fe 
you  been  at  the  opera,  and  at  Moreland's?  Don't  tell  me, 
Sey  you  will  come. 

**xe8,  I'll  couie,  if  possible.     And  you  are  going  to  marry  i 
a  three-million  heiress?" 

**  Worth  her  weight  in  gold  in  every  respect.  Do  you  think 
anything  less  would  tempt  7ne  into  the  maelstrom  of  matri- 
mony? And  you've  gone  in  for  love  and  beauty,  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing.  Well,  if  you  like  it;  but  give  rne  the  widow  or 
the  orphan  with  half  a  million  or  so— not  tied  selfishly  upon 
herself — and  I  won't  ask  overmuch  love,  or  beauty  either. 
I'm  on  my  way  to  the  Joggins'  mansion,  now,  George.  Come 
along  and  be  introduced." 
.    3o  George  linked  his  arm  in  that  of  his  very  bandsome 


■,<'"•■'■'-■ 
■•>i 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


1M9 


'ge 

Cor 
'fc. 

P- 


triend,  who  hailed  a  passing  omnibus  thai;  took  them  to  the 
portals  of  that  most  aristocratic  brown-stone  front,  on  Fifth 
Avenue,  wherein  Miss  Joggius  resided. 

And  the  two  gentlemen  were  shown  into  a  sumptuous  re- 
ception-room; and  presently  Miss  Joggins  came  down  in  all 
the  plenitude  of  her  charms,  with  silks  trailing,  and  jewels 
flashing,  and  priceless  laces  perfuming  the  air. 

The  happy  Araminta,  who  was  neither  very  j'oung  nor  very 
handsome,  was  yet  a  good-natured  little  person,  who  chattered 
with  much  volubility,  and  even  played  and  sung  for  her  vis- ' 
iters. 

The  gray  of  the  winter  day  was  lying  over  the  city  when  the 
two  young  men  parted,  and  the  stars  were  bright  in  the  steel- 
blue  sky  when  George  went  swinging  homeward  to  his  hotel. 

**  And  to  think  Lefarge  can  marry  that  young  woman, 
whose  fat  fingers  are  laden  with  gaudy  rubies  and  emeralds 
up  to  the  knuckles,  whose  waist  is  li'ke  a  bolster,  and  who 
giggles  and  sing^  nai..  And  to  think  of  my  beautiful  darling, 
with  her  starry  eyes,  and  golden  hair,  and  regal  bearing.  1 
would  be  the  liappiest  fellow  in  wide  America  if  this  mysteri- 
ous cloud  had  not  come  between  us.  Is  she  waiting  for  me 
■  now,  lonely,  and  longing  for  my  return?" 

The  bare  idea  lent  wings  to  his  feet.  Five  minutes  later 
and  he  had  flung  away  his  cigar  and  gone  bounding  buoyant- 
ly up  to  his  room.     He  flung  wide  the  door  and  strode  in. 

**  Magdalen,  my  dearest — "  he  began,  and  then  he  paused 
abruptly,  for  all  was  dark,  and  cold,  and  silent.  **  Magda- 
len!" he  repeated,  but  there  was  no  answer. 

The  starlight  shone  in  with  a  feeble  glimmer  and  showed 
him  the  apartment  vacant.  He  crossed  over  to  the  inner 
room,  and  that,  too,  was  deserted. 

**  Gone  out,"  George  said,  blankly;  **  and  alone  at  this 
hour!  Can  she  be  angry  with  me  for  staying  away  so  long? 
But  it  was  her  own  desire.  Or  can  she  be  with  the  writer  of 
those  letters?    What  can  it  mean?" 

He  lighted  the  gas  and  stood  an  instant  irresolute. 

'*  1  can't  go  in  search  of  her,"  he  thought.  **  1  haven't 
the  faintest  idea  where  she  can  be.  Stop!  Mrs.  Moreland's! 
As  I  didn't  go  there  to-day,  she  may  have  called  and  carried 
Magdalen  off,  willy-nilly.     That's  it.     Til  go  there  at  once!" 

He  clapped  on  his  hat  and  was  rushing  impetuously  forth, 
when  the  door  suddenly  opened  and  his  wife,  in  her  street 
dress,  stood  before  hiuL 

"  Magdalen!" 

George  Barstone  stood  and  lo^ed  at  ]xk  wife.    The  rapid 


liO 


Magdalen's  vow. 


walk  had  not  brought  any  color  to  her  face;  she  looked 
strangely  weary  and  white  as  she  leaned  heavily  against  the 
door.  Something  in  the  dreary  misery  of  her  face  turned 
him  cold. 

**  You  have  been  out,  my  dear,  and  alone?"     •  : 

**  I  have  been  out,"  she  answered.     **Yes."         ' 

She  passed  him  and  entered  the  bedroom  to  remove  her 
bonnet.     He  slowly  followed  her. 
t     **  Do  you  feel  quite  well  to-night,  Magdalen?"  f^^  . 

**  Thanks— yes."  ;.     '  ■;  • 

**  You  were  out  alone?" 

There  was  no  reply.  She  was  absorbed  by  the  fastening  of 
her  mantle.       •  -  .    ' 

**  Were  you  alone,  Magdalen?"  George  reiterated. 

**  Who  was  1  likely  to  be  with?"  Magdalen  respond?:!, 
coldly.  It  was  a  part  of  her  miserable  position,  this  dissimu- 
2ation.  **  Is  six  o'clock  so  late  that  you  should  look  so 
shocked  about  it?  I  don't  ask  you  where  you  spent  your  day 
— I  don't  feel  the  least  anxiety  in  the  matter.  1  have  been 
alone  on  the  streets  of  New  York  before  to-night,  Mr.  Bar- 
stone." 

"We  were 'to  have  gone  to  hear  *  Robert  le  Diable' to- 
night, Magdalen,"  he  said,  offended,  in  spite  of  his  habitual 
gentle  temper  by  her  words  and  tone.  *'  Do  you  particularly 
care  to  go?" 

**  By  no  means.  On  the  contrary,  1  prefer  remaining 
where  1  am." 

**  I  have  an  invitation  to  meet  a  few  old  friends  this  even- 
ing.    You  will  not  object  to  my  going,  I  suppose?" 

'*  Not  at  all — go,  by  all  means!" 

The  utter  indifference  of  her  tone  stung  him  to  the  heart, 
flow  little  she  cared  for  him!  His  outgoings  and  incomings 
were  matters  of  perfect  indifference  to  her.  She  went  out  to 
the  parlor,  took  up  a  book  and  began  to  read,  and  George, 
hurl  and  grieved  beyond  words,  silently  and  rapidly  made  hig 
toilet.  He  was  ready  to  go,  and  standing  on  the  threshold 
of  the  outer  door,  ere  he  spoke  again. 

*'  You  are  sure  you  will  not  be  lonely,  Magdalen?" 

**  Quite  sure.  Don't  distress  yourself  on  my  account.  1 
will  read  until  I  grow  sleepy,  and  then  go  to  bed.  Pray  en- 
joy yourself,  and  good -night!" 

**  She's  only  too  glad  to  be  rid  of  me,"  thought  this  ill-used 
married  man.  **Pray  enjoy  myself,  indeed!  I  am  likely 
to,  I  think,  all  things  considered,  and  1  shall  be  a  very 
agreeable  guest  at  Louis  Lefarge's  supper!" 


v^T- 


MAGDALEN '8   VOW. 


141 


Mr.  Lofarge's  supper-room  looked  a  very  cheerful  place  this 
cold  January  night.  Many  old  friends  greeted  George  and 
congratulated  him.  Mr.  Hollis  gazed  at  him  in  envious  re- 
gret that  he  should  have  won  the  only  woman  that  ever  fully 
answered  his  ideal,  and  Philip  Barstone,  who  was  about  llio 
gayest  gentleman  present,  and  who  had  arrived  very  lu(e, 
watched  him  furtively  and  curiously.  For  the  giver  of  Ihe 
symposium,  he  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table,  and  dipped  intj 
his  Moselle  with  a  tender  melancholy  upon  liim  beiitling  u 
man  about  to  enter  on  that  unknown  und  mysterious  laud 
called  the  *'  State  of  Matrimony." 

Bohemia  may  not  rank  high  among  the  nations  of  the  earth, 
but  Mr.  Louis  Lefarge  had  always  found  it  a  very  pleasant 
country,  and  those  dashing  outlaws  of  the  pen,  brush,  and 
chisel,  very  delightful  companions,  indeed.  And  after  to- 
night he  must  be  an  exile  from  this  flowery  kingdom,  to  visit 
it  no  more  forever.  And  for  those  loud-laughing,  reckless, 
clever  brothers  of  his  order,  he  must  go  down  through  th© 
vale  of  years  with  Miss  Araminta  Joggins. 

A  bridegroom-elect  should  be  a  happy  man,  and  no  doubt 
such'  Mr.  Lefarge  was;  but  it  required  a  strong  recollection 
of  the  Joggins'  hundred  thousand  dollars  to  sustain  his  spirit 
on  this  occasion.  He  sat  mildly  pensive  while  an  artist  friend 
made  a  flowery  little  speech  anent  the  happy  days  so  close  at 
hand — gave  his  host  ,ioy  that  he  was  so  near  the  blissful  altar 
of  Hymen,  before  whise  magic  shrine  all  earthly  troubles 
drop  away  and  iiothing  is  left,  when  the  church  register  is 
signed,  but  to  live  happy  forever  after. 

**  Perpetual  bliss,"  grunted  Mr.  Richard  Tompkins,  as  his 
eloquent  neighbor  sat  down.  '*  Egad!  I  should  say  so,  judg- 
ing by  the  looks  of  the  only  married  man  in  the  company!" 

And  the  author  pointed  his  fork  at  poor  George's  dismal 
face.  - 

**  1  asked  him  four  times  if  he  would  allow  Mrs.  Barstone 
to  sit  to  me  for  my  *  Aphrodite,'  and  he  never  once  heard 
me,  by  Jove!"  muttered  Mr.  Hollis. 

*'  Let  him  alone,  you  fellows!"  said  the  host.  *'  I  know 
what  trouble  1  had  to  get  him  to  come.  For  '  thinking  of  an 
absent  wife  will  blanch  a  faithful  cheek,*  as  Don  Juan,  or 
Childe  Harold,  or  some  of  those  poetical  cads  remark.  Never 
mind,  George;  we'll  let  you  off  early,  and  even  Mr.  Caudle 
might  risk  a  curtain  lecture  on  such  an  occasion  as  this. 
Tompkins,  we're  getting  melancholy— sing  *  Belles  of  Broad- 
way,' and  raise  our  spirits.  You  sung  it  horribly  flat  the  last 
tisM  I  heard  you;  but  as  it  is  the  only  thing  you  know^  aud 


''vT^'''"  ■''"'■'" 


142 


HAQDALEN^S    VOW. 


I     !   I 


! 
t 


as  you  will  be  certain  to  insist  upon  our  hearing  it  before  we 
separate,  we  had  better  get  it  over  at  once.'* 

Mr.  Tompkins  needed  no  second  invitation.  He  rapped 
smartly  on  the  table  with  the  handle  of  his  fruit  knife,  callinc 
these  turbulent  bachelors  to  order,  and  rolled  out  that  spirited 
song  in  a  big,  mellow  bass,  that  might  have  been  heard  at  Cas- 
tle Garden. 

Following  this  eminent  author  came  lesser  lights  with  their 
after-supper  songs,  in  high  tenor  or  low  bass,  and  as  tho  mid- 
night hour  rolled  by,  the  fun  and  jollity  grew  as  fast  and 
furious  as  the  Demon  Dance  in  **  Tarn  O'Shanter." 

The  rosy  vintages  passed,  cigar  smoke  enveloped  all  things 
in  a  fragrant  fog,  and  everyb(3y  appeared  to  be  talking  at 
once. 

But  through  all  this  revelry,  Mr.  George  Barstone  kept  un- 
sociably  sober  and  gloomy,  and  he  and  the  giver  of  the  ban- 
quet were  the  two  death's-heads  at  the  board.  Mr.  Lefarge, 
indeed,  became  altogether  overcome,  probably  owing  to — the 
cigars,  which  were  disgracefully  strong,  and  was  quite  dis- 
solved in  tears  at  the  parting  hour. 

He  wrung  George's  hand,  a  trifle  unsteady  as  to  his  legs, 
and  more  than  a  trifle  watery,  as  to  his  eyes,  and  called  him 
the  companion  of  his  infancy — the  playmate  of  his  happy, 
happy  childhood.  And,  unspeakably  affected  at  this  point, 
Mr.  Lefarge  sunk  sobbing  upon  the  nearest  sofa,  and  told 
them  to  go — to  leave  him  to  his  miserable  fate.  -'^ 

**  Depart!  departl"  cried  Miss  Joggins*  affianced,  with  a 
wild  flourish  of  his  arms.  **  Leave  me,  I  conjure  ye!  'Tis 
but  a  passing  weakness.     1*11  be  myself  to-morrow.** 

"  Faith,  I  hope  so,**  said  Dick  Tompkins;  *'  for  you're 
anything  else  now.  A  man  more  shamefully  disguised  in 
liquor  1  never  saw.  I  wish  Miss  Joggins  saw  you  this  min- 
ute. She  wouldn't  be  sleeping  with  your  photograph  pressed 
to  her  throbbing  heart*  as  I'll  take  my  oath  she  is  doing. 
Give  his  legs  a  hoist,  Phil.  Let  us  put  this  sofa  pillow  under 
his  head.  There,  he'll  do  now.  Good-night,  old  boy.  I 
think  you'll  sleep  until  morning.  '* 

**  Sleep!  sleep!"  murmured  Mr.  Lefarge,  rolling  his  di- 
sheveled head  Vildly.  *'*  Macbeth  hath  murdered  sleep.' 
Good-ni*,  ole  f'ler — gooni'!'* 

And  then  the  earthly  troubles  of  the  bridegroom-elect  were 
ended,  and  he  was  as  sound  as  a  church. 

The  next  day,  when  he  presented  himself  before  Araminta, 
very,  very  pale,  and  with  dark  haloes  surrounding  his  pathetic 
Mack  eyes,  I  don't  think  she  would  have  been  quite  so  tender- 


•■■^^^^Kppjl 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


Ud 


I  we 
)ed 

las- 


ly  solicitous  about  bis  boalth  had  she  known  that  marble  pal- 
lor wa"!  altogether  owing  to  those  odious — cigars. 

Philip  Barstone  linked  his  arm  within  that  of  his  cousin,  as 
they  bid  the  other  men  good-night. 

**  rU  walk  up  to  the  hotel  with  you,  Goorgo,"  ho  said; 
**  the  night's  lovely,  and  my  head  won't  stand  too  much  of 
this  sort  of  thing.'* 

The  night,  or  rather  the  morning — for  the  longest  of  the 
small  hours  had  come — was  refreshing;  the  stars  wore  slowly 
paling,  and  a  soft  west  wind  cooled  thoir  flushed  faces.  Very 
solemn  and  quiet  the  great  turbulent  city  lay,  waiting  the 
birth  of  the  new  day. 

*'  Your  wife  won't  sit  up  for  you,  of  course,  George.  How 
jS  she,  by  the  way?  You  seemed  out  of  spirits,  I  fancied,  all 
evening.  I  trust  she  hasn't  had  another  attack  of — that  very 
disagreeable  headache?" 

The  pause  and  the  significance  of  his  tone  pointed  a  hidden 
meaning  in  his  words  very  plainly.     George  winced  under  it. 

**  No,"  he  said;  '*  she  did  not  complain — in  fact,  she  said 
she  was  quite  well." 
,     **  You  saw  her,  then,  before  you  l^ft?    She  was  at  home?" 

George  Barstone  looked  sharply  at  the  speaker;  but  the 
speaker's  face  was  quite  impassive. 

**  I  was  not  aware  you  know  she  had  been  from  home,"  he 
said;  "  she  was  out,  certainly.     You  met  her,  I  suppose?" 

**  Not  exactly,  bi  o  I  saw  her — I  even  heard  her.  My  dear 
George,  who  was  that  fellow  she  was  with?" 

Again  George  looked  at  his  cousin,  the  red  blood  rushing 
hotly  this  time  to  his  face. 


"It's  all  right,  of  course,"  Phil  continued,  not  heeding 
that  startled  gaze;  *'  but  would  it  not  be  better  for  her  to  re- 
ceive him  at 
you,  dear  old 


your  roomsr  He  was — I  hope  I  don't  offend 
boy — rather  a  disreputable-looking  companion 
Jor  the  street. ' ' 

"  1  don't  understand,  Phil.  She — she  did  not  mention  be- 
ing with  any  one — in  fact,  I  understood  her  to  say  she  had 
been  alone.  The  mistake  was  mine,  of  course.  Where  did 
you  see  them,  and  when?" 

**  About  six.  It  was  quite  dark — starlight,  though — and 
the  place.  Fourteenth  Street,  a  block  or  two  beyond  the 
Academy.  1  was  speaking  to  a  friend  on  his  doorstep,  and  it 
was  your  wife's  voice  I  recognized  first — she  has  a  peculiar 
voice,  George,  not  loud,  but  very  clear  and  sweet — and  the 
words  were  so  remarkable  that  even  Fletcher,  my  companion, 
turned  to  look  at  her." 


\ 


i 


"^-Sw. 


144 


MAGDALEN '8    YOW. 


•*  What  did  she  say?" 

That  huskiaesB  made  George's  voice  anything  but  clear  and 
sweet  now. 

'*  The  words  I  heard  her  say  wore  these:  *  You  may  trust 
me.  On  tlie  road  we  are  treading  there  is  no  turning  baclc. 
I  will  keep  my  vow — I  will  have  my  revenge  upon  Maurice 
Langley!'^ 

There  was  a  dead  pause.  The  fuco  of  Magdalen's  husband^ 
from  red,  had  grown  very  white. 

**  We  do  not  hear  such  tragical  words  from  chance  passers- 
by  on  the  streets  every  day/'  Dr.  Philip  went  on.  *'  I  recog- 
nized the  voice,  and  as  I  turned  around  thoy  were  passing  be- 
neath a  corner  lamp.  I  saw  your  wife  s  face  distinctly. 
Fletcher  laughed  at  the  melodramatic  words.  *  A  very  pretty 
girl,*  he  said.  *  Do  you  know  her,  Barstone?'  1  give  you 
my  honor,  George,  I  never  was  more  surprised  in  my  life." 

**  And  the  man?"  George  said,  breathing  hard. 

**  A  common-looking  fellow  as  ever  1  saw — quite  disreputa- 
ble, in  fact — in  a  slouched  liat  and  very  shabby  coat.  I  could 
not  see  his  face,  though  1  tried.  I  got  into  my  carriage  and 
kept  them  in  sight — nol^from  prying  curiosity,  mind,  George, 
but  because — well,  because  1  did  not  wish  to  see  my  cousin's 
wife  there  at  that  hour,  and  with  such  a  companion.  If  it 
were  all  right — as  no  doubt  it  is — there  would  be  no  harm 
done;  she  need  never  know.  If  any  one  insulted  her,  I  was 
on  hand  to  protect  her.  They  parted  on  the  corner  of  Broad- 
way, and  again,  with  the  best  of  intentions,  1  was  eavesdrop- 
per— 1  heard  his  parting  words." 

**  What  were  they?"  '  •^^•' 

"  Very  strange  ones,  too.  He  told  her  to  go  to  Washington 
for  a  week — to  make  herself  as  agreeable  as  possible,  and  to 
send  him  some  money — thirty  or  forty  dollars.  *  You  can 
find  your  way  back  alone,  I  suppose?'  he  said  to  her.  *  It 
won't  do  for  me  to  be  seen  with  you.'" 

**Well?" 

The  word  came  hoarsely;  that  tightening  in  his  throat  near- 
ly strangled  him. 

**  George,  she  said  yes.  *  I'll  send  you  the  money  to-mor- 
row,' was  her  expression.  *  I  have  more  than  that  of  my  own. 
I  have  lingered  too  long — I  should  have  been  back  before 
George's  return. '  My  dear  old  fellow,  I  heard  her  words  dis- 
tinctly, and  1  give  you  my  honor  they  have  troubled  me  ever 


imce. 


«( 


They  parted  then?" 

Tlieyparted—- she  hurried  along  Broadway,  and  he  turned 


4» 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


IW 


4» 


ilown  Fourteenth  Street  again.  I  kept  him  in  sight,  anrl  fol- 
lowed him  to  a  low  street,  cloae  by  the  East  Kiver.  Tliat  is 
why  1  arrived  so  late  at  Lefarge's.  My  dear  George,  for 
Heaven's  sake,  tell  me  you  understand  this,  and  that  it  is  all 
right?" 

**  1  understand  nothing  of  it,"  George  answered,  his  voice 
harsh  with  inward  pain;  "  she  has  told  mo  nothing.  Hut  it 
is  easy  enough  understood — she  is  once  more  on  the  trail  of 
this  accursed  Maurice  LangloyI  And  I  thought  she  would 
forget  that!" 

**  And  this  follow  upon  whose  arm  she  loaned — who  wai 
he?" 

George  groaned. 

**  Ah!  whb  was  he?  1  wish  1  knew.  But  I  will  know — 
she  shall  tell  me!  He  has  been  writing  her  letters,  too.  I 
can  understand  now  why  she  seemed  so  anxious  to  be  alone 
to-day.  My  God,  how  deceitful  these  women  are!  And  I 
could  have  staked  niy  soul  on  her  integrity.  She  seemed  the 
truest,  the  purest,  as  I  thought  her,  the  fairest  of  all  her  kind. 
And  no2v  !  But  IMl  find  out;  ehe  shall  tell  me!  It  may  be 
all  right—it  must  bo  all  right!  Stay — I  have  it!  Oh,  by 
George!  yes,  she  had  a  brother!" 

**  A  brother — a  convict — ah,  yes,  1  recollect.  And  is  he 
free  from  Sing  Sing?" 

•*  I  don't  know;  but  it  must  be  he.  She  is  insane  on  the 
subject  of  Maurice  Langloy.  But  this  man  you  saw  her  with 
is  her  brother.  To-morrow  I  will  ask  her.  She  is  incapable 
of  fa  falsehood;  she  will  tell  me  all." 

**  Let  us  hope  so.  Here  is  your  hotel.  I  trust  I  have  not 
done  wrong,  George,  in  telling  you  this;  I  meant  well,  at 
least." 

"  No;  you  have  not  done  wrong.  I  thank  you!"  But 
George's  voice  sounded  very  cold;  he  did  not  offer  to  shake 
hands.  Othello  was  not  over  and  above  grateful  to  lago  for 
the  good  turn  he  did  him.     **  Good-night,  Phil." 

The  cousins  parted.  Philip  walked  rapidly  away  in  the 
direction  of  Dr.  Masterson's,  and  George  was  alone  under  the 
bleak  morning  sky. 

The  dark  shadows  that  precede  the  coming  day  lay,  black 
and  cold,  over  the  earth;  but  darker  than  these,  the  shadow 
of  a  great  trouble  lay  on  George  Barstone's  soul. 


m 


i^. 


'•".'■^W^^'v"" 


1^6 


MA*DALSN*S   VOW. 


I,  , 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

•  A     fanny's  good  fortune.    : .."jf 

George  did  not  even  make  a  pretense  of  sleeping  for  the 
lew  hours  that  were  left  to  him  ere  the  great  hotel  was  astir. 
He  sat  in  the  outer  apartment  and  smoked  with  most  un- 
wonted energy  beside  the  open  window. 

What  were  the  bleak  blasts  of  dawn  to  him?  ha  had 
something  else  to  think  of.  The  early  morning  grew  rosy  red 
in  the  east;  the  first  gold  and  pearly  glimmer  of  the  rising  sun 
gilded  the  spires  and  cupolas  of  the  Empire  City.  The  crash 
of  wheels  over  the  stony  streets  commenced.  It  was  seven 
o'clock,  and  all  the  world  of  Kcw  York  was  up  and  doing 
once  more. 

Magdalen  slept.  The  night-lamp  burned  dim  when  George 
had  gone  in  to  look  at  her  once.  How  pale  she  was;  how 
pale-— how  palo!  And  she  had  grown  thin  as  a  shadow  in  these 
few  days.  He  had  never  noticed  it  before.  All  her  lovely 
light  hair  floated  over  the  pillow  and  half  veiled  the  sweet, 
slumbering  face.  The  sadness  of  her  waking  hours  had  not 
followed  her  into  dreamland;  a  faint  smile  flickered  around 
the  youthful  lips.     Was  that  the  face  of  a  guilty  woman? 

Geo;ge  stooped  and  kissed  her  softly. 

**  Ky  darling!''  he  said,  with  unutterable  love,  "when 
yotc  are  false,  there  will  be  no  truth  left  on  the  earth.  You 
will  tell  me  all,  dear,  when  you  awake." 

So  this  trusting,  new-made  husband  went  back  to  his  cigars 
— man*s  best  comforter — ^^and  waited  with  what  patience  he 
might  for  his  wifo  to  rise  and  appear,  and  watched,  with  con- 
siderable interest,  the  sky  change  from  gray  to  crimson,  from 
crimson  to  blazing  gold,  and  all  the  untold  glory  of  sunrise 
burst  forth  upon  the  world. 

Mr.  Barstone  regarded  the  phenomenon  in  much  surprise 
and  admiration;  it  was  something  he  did  not  see  every  day, 
you  understand. 

**  Egad!"  he  thought,  **  it's  better  than  the  transforma- 
tion scenes  in  the  theaters.  The  only  drawback  is,  we  haven't 
to  pay  for  looking  at  it.  If  we  had,  what  hosts  would  be 
early  risers.  I  don't  thi^k  I  ever  saw  the  sun  rise  before 
since  Phil  and  1  used  to  go  bird-uc^sting  in  Mil  ford  Woods,  or 
took  matinal  cold  baths,  in  the  Connecticut.     Hp''gh-hoICj 

He  didn't  say  **  heigh-ho  ''—I  don't  think  people  often  do 


I 


N,,;-.-fjg»'!-H.-4^i.,- 


SJfW"' 


TTWJ-r- 


"^'^^•fj^^fSl^:^^" 


MAQDALEij'S    VOW. 


W 


in  every-day  life— but  he  sighed  a  sigh  so  deep  that  it  is  sur« 
prising  it  did  not  awaken  Mrs.  Barstoue  in  the  next  room. 

His  thoaghts  went  drifting  back  to  those  halcyon  boyish 
days,  when  a  grim  old  prettptor  down  in  Milford  used  to 
trounce  him  soundly  for  playing  truant  and  scrawling  sur- 
reptitious notes  to  the  pretty  little  girls — for  even  at  that  ten- 
der age  this  young  man  had  a  weakness  for  the  fair  sex — those 
blissful  boyish  days,  when  his  heaviest  troubles  were  assuaged 
by  ten  cents  to  invest  in  sweets,  and  the  Fourth  of  July  and 
unlimited  fire- crackers  the  summit  of  earthly  joy. 

Dark  days  had  come  since  then — days  when  Mr.  Barstone 
had  been  not  only  as  drunk  as  a  lord,  but  as  intoxicated  as  a 
prince,  if  possible — when  ne  had  played  cards,  and  shook  dice, 
and  knocked  about  billiards,  and,  in  short,  had  been  a  very 
black  sheep  indeed. 

There  had  been  one  misdeed  even  darker  still — so  dark  that 
it  made  his  face  tingle,  sitting  here  alone,  even  to  look  back 
upon.  He  had  reformed  and  repented,  and  even  atoned  for 
that  evil  time;  but  its  memory  always  brought  a  cloud  over 
his  fair,  frank  face,  and  must  to  his  dying  day. 

His  tempter  and  mentor  had  chiefly  been  his  cousin;  but 
never,  even  in  his  thoughts,  did  honest  George  blame  him. 

*'  Perliaps  it  would  hh  better  to  tell  Magdalen  of  that  scrape 
of  mine,"  he  thought,  moodily;  **but,  hang  it!  it  doesn't 
concern  her  at  all,  and  I  hate  even  to  think  of  it.  I  don't 
want  her  to  despise  me;  and,  by  Jove!  I  despise  myself  when- 
ever 1  recall  iL  " 

George's  watch  pointed  to  half  past  nine  before  Magdalen 
made  her  appf^arance,  looking  very  pretty  in  her  fresh  morn- 
ing-dress. She  glanced  in  surprise  at  the  quiet  figure  seated 
at  the  window. 

*'  You,  George!"  she  said,  faintly.  **  When  did  you  re- 
turn?" 

George  arose  and  kissed  her,  and  led  her  to  a  seat  upon  the 
sofa.  He  was  unusually  grave  and  gentle  this  morninr^ — un- 
usually pale,  too,  his  wife  saw. 

**  At  four  o'clock,  my  dear.  You  were  sleeping  very  peace- 
fully, and  I  would  not  disturb  you." 

*'  And  your  party?  I  trust  you  found  it  pleasant?" 
.  She  remembered  Willie's  injunction  to  **  make  herself 
agreeable;"  but  that  was  not  why  she  spoke  to  him  in  the  old 
way.  It  was  so  hard  to  remember  at  all  times,  that  this  gen- 
tle-hearted genUeman  was  a  cold-blooded  villain — so  impossi- 
ble to  realize  it  at  any  time, 

She  felt  strangely  weary  and  weak,  worn  out  already  with 


148 


Magdalen's  vow. 


t    11 


the  dreary  park  she  had  to  play.  And  she  loved  him  a  thou* 
saad  tiiucs  more  dearly,  it  seemed  to  her>  now  that  he  was 
losb  to  her  forever. 

"The  party  was  pleasant,  Magdalen,"  George  answered, 
*  but  1  felt  little  pleasure.     I  was  thinking  of  you,  my  dear- 
est, alone,  and  perhaps  lonely,  here." 

He  drew  her  head  down  on  his  shoulder  and  stroked  ca- 
ressingly the  sunshiny  tresses.  She  let  it  lie,  while  the  slow 
tears  welled  up  in  her  closed  eyes. 

He  was  so  inexpressibly  dear  to  her!  And  he  loved  her  so 
tenderly,  so  truly!  And  in  a  few  short  weeks,  at  most,  she 
must  tear  herself  from  him  forever. 

**  Oh,  George!  George!"  she  sobbed,  suddenly  clasping  him 
in  her  arms,  the  hysterical,  sobs  choking  her  voice.  George 
— my  husband!  my  darling!  how  good  you  are  to  me;  and  i 
—oh,  my  God — what  a  lost,  lost  creature  1  am!" 

George  let  her  cry  her  trouble  out  without  a  word  of  inquiry 
or  explanation.  He  stroked  the  sunny  hair  be  thought  so 
beautiful,  and  called  her  softly  by  tender  names,  and  present- 
ly the  wild  sobbing  and  raining  tears  died  away^  and  she  lay 
exhausted  and  tranquil.  Then  this  long-suffering  husband 
spoke. 

'*  Magdalen,  my  love,  what  is  it?  What  is  this  trouble 
that  has  come  upon  you?  Oh,  Magdalen,  speak  and  tell  me 
what  is  this  cloud  that  has  come  between  us?  What  have  I 
done  in  the  past,  or  in  the  present,  to  lose  your  love?" 

A  daring  question,  surely,  for  Maurice  Langley  to  ask  I 
But  Magdalen  was  too  completely  done  out  to  feel  even  in- 
dignation at  this  barefaced  audacity. 

**  Don't  ask  me,  George,"  she  said,  with  inexpressible 
weariness.  **  Nothing,  if  you  like.  I  am  only  a  weak,  fool- 
ish girl,  and  1  have  had  a  great  deal  of  trouble  in  my  life. 
Don't  mind  me;  I  am  nervous  and  hysterical  and  out  of 
sorts." 

**  But  not  without  cause.  Something  new  has  happened. 
This  is  not  that  old  trouble,  surely.  It  is  something  new — 
somethiug  worse!" 

**  Nothing  could  be  worse.  Pray,  pray,  George,  don't  talk 
about  it.     Let  me  be  at  rest  if  I  can. 

At  rest!  She  drew  a  long,  heartsick  sigh,  and  bowed  her 
face  lower  on  his  shoulder.  That  should  have  been  her  rest- 
ing-place for  life;  but,  oh,  so  soon — so  soon  she  mu&t  quit  it 
forever!  She  forgot  her  sorrow  for  Laura  in  her  sorrow  for 
the  husband  who  loved  and  must  lose  her. 

Dearest  Magdalen!  dearest  love!  dearest  wife!  you  know 


<( 


i^^^^^^^^¥^^^ 


MA.GDALKN  8    VOW. 


149 


■   * 


S  i' 


i  f- 


"■ 


.'1^ 


1  would  not  say  one  word  to  pain  or  trouble  you,  I  would 
give  my  very  life  for  you  if  necessary.  But  this  is  something 
i  oan  not  so  easily  drop^  for  more  than  life  is  at  stake  here — 
honor,'* 

She  lifted  her  head  swiftly  and  looiced  at  him. 

**  What  do  you  mean?''  she  asked,  in  an  altered  voice. 

**  This:  Who  was  that  man  with  whom  you  were  walking 
along  Fourteenth  Street  last  night?" 

The  color  rushed  in  a  red  tide  to  her  face.  She  had  been 
seen,  then;  and  one  of  Willie's  last  injunctions  had  been: 

"Don't  let  Langley  know  I  am  at  large.  He  is  so  deep, 
and  subtle,  and  doubled-dyed  a  villain,  that  he  would  shp 
through  my  hands  like  an  oel  if  he  found  it  out.  If  he  ever 
asks  yoa  of  me,  let  him  still  think  I  am  in  Sing  Sing." 

Magdalen  threw  herself  entirely  away  at  the  unlooked-for 
question,  th^  guilty  flush  hot  upon  her  face. 

*'  Who  was  he,  Magdalen?"  George  repeated — **  this  man 
who  writes  you  letters  I  may  not  see — whom  you  meet  by 
night-fall  in  the  streets?     Who  is  he?"  ;  .  ^ 

**  A — a  friend — a  person  I  used  to  know." 

"  A  friend?  But  why  can  not  your  husband  see  the  letter 
your  masculine  friend  writes  you,  and  why  not  receive  him 
here  f    Any  friend  of  yours  will  be  heartily  welcomed  by  me." 

•*  He — he  is  poor — very  poor — unable  to  dress  as  he  would 
like,  and  ashamed  to  present  himself  before  you. " 

**  Magdalen,"  George  said,  chilled  and  pained,  **  are  you 
telling  me  the  truth?  Are  you  not  equivocating?  Tell  me 
this  man's  name."  ^     ,^  .         .  ^, 

**  His  name  is  Johnstone." 

It  was  the  alias  Willie  had  assumed  since  leaving  prison, 
the  better  to  keep  up  his  disguise;  but,  oh!  how  Magdalen 
hated  herself  as  she  spoke  it!  How  mean,  how  base,  how  ut- 
terly despicable  all  this  deception  seemed! 

George's  heart  sunk.     It  was  not  her  brother,  after  all. 
'     **  Is  he  a  relative?"  he  asked. 

**  Yes,"  Magdalen  answered,  with  angry  impatience,  rising 
from  her  seat;  **  he  is  a  relative!  Are  you  jealous,  George 
Barstone?  You  do  well— you,  of  all  men  alive — to  demand 
that  your  wife  shall  be,  like  Caesar's,  above  reproach!"        ■ 

She  laughed  bitterly.  She  was  hysterical  still,  and  half  wild 
with  pain,  and  grief,  and  shame. 

*'  And  why  not  I,  Magdalen?  I  am  not  jealous,  as  yet, 
though  I  am  not  aware  of  having  forfeited  the  right  to  be  so. 
I  am  only  grieved  that  my  wife  should  have  secrets  from  m« 
—vexed  that  she  should  give  others  an  opportunity  of  speak* 


i  r 


1^0 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


ing  of  her,  by  meeting  disreputable  men  in  the  public  streets 
after  night-fall. " 

**  Who  saw  me?"  Magdalen  demanded.  **  It  was  some 
one  at  the  party.  You  did  not  know  when  you  went  out 
Your  ubiquitous  cousin  Phil,  perhaps?  1  have  gone  nowhere 
as  yet,  that  I  have  not  seen  him.  Ah!  1  see  1  am  right. 
How  magnanimous  of  him  to  play  the  part  of  duenna  and 
hasten  to  inform  you!  I  disliked  him  from  the  first — think 
how  1  must  love  him  now!*' 

She  spoke  rapidly  and  recklessly.  Her  blood  was  up,  and 
she  was  equal  to  anything. 

*'*'  This  man  with  whom  Doctor  Philip  Barstone  saw  me  is, 
as  1  have  said,  a  relative — a  poor  one— a  disreputable  one,  if 
you  like;  but  blood  is  thicker  than  water,  and  when  he  asked 
me  to  see  him,  1  went,  and  when  he  asked  me  for  help,  1  gave 
it  He  will  not  come  here.  Disreputable  people  are  sensitive 
sometimes,  and  these  outcasts  of  society  have  an  instinctive 
repulsion  to  meeting  eminently  virtuous  aud  respectable  peo- 
ple like  yourself  and  your  cousin.  1  come  of  a  very  bad  and 
utterly  worthless  family,  Mr.  Barstone,  as  I  think  I  told  you 
before.  A  deceived  sister,  who,  1  dare  say,  deserved  the  fate 
she  met,  for  trusting  a  scoundrel  and  running  away  from  home 
with  him — a  convict  brother — a  gambler,  a  forger,  for  whom 
Sing  Sing  is  too  good — and  last,  but  least,  this  shabby  fellow 
who  dares  not  come  here  and  face  the  gentleman  who  has 
married  his — relative,  or  any  other  honest  and  upright  man. 
What  can  you  expect  of  me,  coming  of  such  a  race?  I  am 
afraid  yon  did  a  very  unwise  thing  in  marrying  Magdalen 
Wayne,  the  governess,  Mr.  Barstone!" 

She  was  pacing  up  and  down  with  the  air  of  a  tragedy 
queen,  her  eyes  fiashing,  her  cheeks  aflame,  her  voice  ringing 
with  excitement  ..    *, , 

George  was  shocked  beyond  words. 

"Magdalen!  Magdalen!"  he  said,  **  for  pity's  sake,  sit 
down!  Calm  yourself — be  reasonable — don't  talk  and  look 
in  that  frantic  way!  I  will  ask  you  no  more  questions.  I 
will  wait  1  will  love  you  and  trust  you  through  everything; 
and  some  day,  1  know,  you  will  come  to  me  oi  yourself  and 
tell  me  all." 

Magdalen  flung  up  both  arms  and  tossed  her  hair  back 
wildly.  '■    T- 

**  Take  m«  away!"  she  cried — **  take  me  away  from  this 
horrible  city — take  me  away  from  this  great,  pitiless,  wicked 
3Sew  York,  or  I  shall  ijp  mad!    Take  me  to  Milford— 1« 


™  " 


.-*<: 


)ets 


MAGDALEK'S    VOW. 


151 


IS. 


^ 


Washington  —  anywhere!  Take  me  away  from  my  self ^ 
George  Barstone,  if  you  canl'V 

He  drew  her  to  his  heart  and  soothed  her  as.  he  might  a 
child. 

**  You  shall  go,"  he  answered,  **  this  \rery  day.  We  will 
visit  Washington,  as  we  had  intended,  and  return  from  thence 
home.  Calm  yourself,  my  dearest.  You  have  wrought 
yourself  to  an  insane  pitch  of  nervous  excitement.  Ca'm 
yourself,  my  dearest  girl,  and  come  down  with  me  to  hreak- 
fast" 

And  so  George's  explanation  was  at  an  end,  and  he  was  not 
much  wiser  or  better  satisfied  than  before. 

Of  his  wife's  integrity  he  had  not  the  shadow  of  a  doubt. 
He  was  not  one  of  those  unhappy  men  inclined  to  be  jealous. 
He  believed  what  he  had  heard — that  this  mysterious  John- 
stone was  a  needy  relative — but  that  did  not  by  any  means 
satisfy  him. 

It  was  no  agreeable  thing  to  have  his  wife  receiving  letters, 
even  from  relatives,  that  he  must  not  see,  and  stealing  out 
for  interviews  that  he  must  not  overhear. 

His  open,  good-tempered  face  was  still  sadly  overcast  as  he 
strolled  out  after  breakfast  to  pay  a  parting -visit  to  his 
cousin. 

**  I  can't  leave  New  York  without  telling  Phil  it's  all 
right,"  he  thought  **  It  won't  do  to  leave  a  wrong  impres- 
sion on  his  mind  in  regard  to  my  poor,  nervous  girl;  and  I 
wpn't  stop  in  this  confounded  city  upon  my  return.  I've  not 
had  a  day's  peace  since  I  entered  it." 

The  stoical  boy  in  buttons,  name  Samuel,  admitted  Mr. 
Barstone,  and  jerked  his  head  in  the  direction  of  Dr.  Master- 
son's  breakfast-room,  in  reply  to  that  gentleman's  inquiry  for 
his  cousin. 

"Just  at  breakfast — reading  the  paper  now.  Half  past 
eleven,  and  two  dozen  of  patients  waiting,  savage,  in  the 
office.  But,  Lor'!  he  don't  care!  Coming!  Oh,  darn  youl 
Can't  you  wait?" 

This  to  the  office-bell,  which  kept  up  a  perpetual  jingle. 

George  tapped  at  the  brown  panels,  and  a  familiar  voice  re- 
sponded: 

**  If  that's  you,  Samuel,  V\\  break  your  head  if  you  come 
in!  I  sha'n't  see  anvbody,  I  tell  you,  for  twenty  minutes 
yet." 

**  As  it  doesn't  happen  to  be  Samuel,  I'll  venture  in,"  said 
George,  entering.  *'  Perhaps  you'll  do  me  the  honor  of  see- 
jog  m^?      Doctoring  must  be  pleasant  business^  and  conduo- 


i  :  I 


r 


153 


f'c 


MAGDALEN  S    VOW. 


ive  to  easy  digestion,  I  should  think,  if  this  is  the  way  you 
spend  your  mornings.  How  many  hours  out  of  twenty-four 
do  you  work,  Phil?" 

Dr.  Philip  was  seated  before  the  window,  lying  back  in  a 
cushioned  easy-chair,  his  legs  elevated  upon  the  sill,  a  cigar  in 
his  mouth,  the  **  Herald  "  in  his  hand.  He  lowered  the  sheet 
and  looked  resignedly  at  the  intruder, 

**  Ah,  George!  how  d'ye  do?  I  wasn't  aware  it  was  your 
habit  to  call  upon  people  in  the  middle  of  the  night.  I  won't 
say  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  because  I'm  not — at  this  hour.  Per- 
haps you'd  better  find  a  seat.  I  haven't  half  finished  the 
matrimonial  advertisements;  but  pray  don't  hurry  yourself 
on  that  account. " 

**  I  won't,"  said  George,  taking  a  chair.  "  Phil,  I  wouldn't 
be  as  infernally  lazy  as  you  are  for  all  the  gold  in  Ophir." 

**  Wouldn't  you,  dear  boy?  All  a  matter  of  taste.  *  Hurry 
is  the  devil's,'  says  an  Arabian  proverb.  I  am  never  in  a 
hurry,  I  am  happy  to  say.  And  now,  as  you  are  here,  unfold 
your  errand.  Is  it  professional?  If  so,  you  should  have  gone 
round  to  the  office  with  the  rest  of  'em.'  Did  the  lobster  salad 
and  claret-cup  disagree  with  you  last  night,  and  do  you  want 
me  to  prescribe  for  you?    Put  out  your  tongue." 

**  God  forbid!"    returned    George,  in    unfeigned   horror. 

When  I  want  any  one  to  prescribe  for  me,  don't  flatter 
yourself  I'll  trouble  you,  Doctor  Barstone.  Disagree  with 
me?  Nothing  ever  disagreed  with  me  in  my  life  in  the  way 
of  eating  and  drinking.  No;  I  came  to  say  good-bye.  We're 
off  this  afternoon,  and  uncommonly  glad  I  am  to  shake  the 
dust  of  your  dirty,  noisy,  stony  city  off  my  feet!" 

**  1  dare  say  New  York  won't  miss  you  much.  And  whore 
are  you  going,  may  I  ask?  To  the  capital  of  this  mighty 
nation  to  finish  your  month  of  post-nuptial  banishment?  Or 
are  you  going  to  snap  your  fingers  at  Mrs.  Grundy  and  boldly 
return  to  Milford — to  the  smoke  and  the  factories,  and  all 
the  sweet  spots  which  our  infancy  knew?    Hey?" 

**  I'm  going  to  Washington,"  said  George,  *'  to  remain  a 
week.  From  thence  straight  home.  So,  if  you  want  to  say 
adieu  to  Mrs.  Barstone,  you  had  better  call  within  the  next 
hour  and  a  half."  ?  ^ 

"  I  shall  call,  most  certainly.  And  how  is  Mrs.  Barstone 
this  morning?" 

**  Very  well'— that  is,  pretty  well — a  little  nervous  and 
hyeterical,  I  think.  I — that  is — she  told  me  about  that  liUli^ 
ftffair  of  last  evening,  PhiL" 


«( 


iiAGDALEiJ'S    VOW. 


153 


**  Oh,  she  did!"  Phil  said,  with  a  curious  side  glance. 
**  And  it's  all  right,  I  suppose.    The  fellow  was  her  brother?'* 

**  No;  not  her  brother,  but  a  relative.  A  cousin,  or  some- 
thing of  that  sort.'* 

**  Not  her  brother!"  Dr.  Barstone  repeated,  slowly.  "A 
cousin,  or  something  of  that  sort!  It  strikes  me  you  all  in- 
formed me  Mrs.  Barstone  had  no  relatives." 

"  Well,  perhaps  we  thought  so.  She  has,  it  seems.  This 
Johnstone  has  but  lately  come  to  New  York,  and  is  very  poor, 
and  won't  visit  her  at  the  hotel.  He  asked  her  to  lend  him 
some  money  for  the  present,  and  she  has  done  so." 

George  made  this  explanation  with  a  certain  angry  impa- 
tience in  his  face.  It  sounded  lame  and  unsatisfactory,  and 
there  was  a  x.'^int,  flickering  smile  around  him  medical  cous- 
in's mustached  lips  that  exasperaed  him. 

**  And  his  name's  Johnstone,  and  he  won't  come  to  the 
hotel!  Dear,  dear!  how  unfortunate  your  pretty  wife  is  in 
her  relatives!  I  hope  you  did  not  tell  her  1  was  your  inform- 
ant, George?  But  of  course  you  did.  So  loyal  a  husband 
and  wife  can  by  no  possibility  have  any  secrets  from  each 
other." 

**  None  of  your  sneers,  Phil.  1  did  not  tell  her.  She  asked 
me  point-blank  if  it  wasn't  you,  and  I  suppose  my  face  told 
her  the  truth.  She  doesn't  like  you,  Phil,  I  can  tell  you 
that." 

**  Unhappy  wretch  that  1  am!  And  my  pretty  new  cousin 
doesn't  like  me.     Why,  1  wonder?" 

*'  1  don't  know,"  said  George,  doggedly,  with  his  hands 
deep  in  his  trousers  pockets.  **  No  more  does  she,  but  she 
doesn't. " 

** '  I  do  not  like  you.  Doctor  Fell,  the  reason  why  I  can 
not  tell!'  "  murmured  the  young  physician.  "  But  I  am  not 
surprised.  It's  my  usual  wretched  luck.  Ah,  George!  we 
can't  all  be  born  conquerors  of  the  pretty  ones,  like  you! 
Why,  when  you  were  in  pinafores,  and  made  mud-pies  down 
in  Milford,  I  remember  little  girls  in  pantalets  used  to  wash 
your  dirty  face  for  you,  and  kiss  you  afterward.  Even  at 
that  tender  age,  my  George,  you  were  irresistible." 

**  Oh,  hang  it,  Phil!"  exclaimed  George,  getting  up; 
•'  none  of  your  chaff.  If  you  feel  like  calling  to  say  good- 
bye, call;  ii  you  don't,  why,  it  makes  no  difference.  Aunt 
Lydia  would  like  to  see  you.  When  shall  I  say  you'll  be  at 
Golden  Willows?" 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  the  doctor  answered,  in  a  de* 
upondent  tone.     "Fanny's  there^  and  Fanny's  a  little  to9 


! 


■■^'i 


154 


MAQDALIIN  S    VOW. 


much  for  me.  I'm  poor,  but  honest.  I  can't  afford  to  marry 
that  girl,  and  her  intentions  are  a  little  too  pointed.  Girls  in 
New  York  make  love  to  a  lellow  when  they  get  a  chance,  but 
a  fellow  <^an  break  away  from  them.  At  Golden  Willows  I'm 
alone  and  unprotected,  and  Miss  Winters  shoWb  no  quarter. 
I  should  like  to  go  back,  to  chrow  physic  to  the  dogs  for  a 
month  or  two.  Put  if  Fan  asks  me  to  marrv  her,  what  am 
I  to  do?  I  give  you  my  word  that  wan  why  I  didn't  go  to  the 
wedding.  I  can  stand  her  letters  (I  don't  read  them),  but 
herself — no!  George,  give  Aunt  liylia  my  best  affection, 
but  my  peace  of  mind  is  dear  to  me — 1  can't  go." 

The  last  of  this  mild  a^jpeal  was  murmured  to  the  walls, 
for  George  Barstone  had  seized  his  hat  '^nd  departed  in  dis- 
gust. 

"  Gone!"  Phil  said,  glancing  after  him.  *'  And  there's 
been  a>i  explanation,  has  there?  And  the  cavalier  of  last 
night  wasn't  the  convict-brother,  after  all,  but  a  party  by  the 
name  of  Johnstone.  My  dear,  gullible  George!"  he  laughed, 
softly.  **  How  the  silliest  girl  in  her  teens  can  twist  these 
big,  learned,  wise  men  around  their  dear  little  fingers.  Oh, 
Dfelilah!  oh,  Omphale!  you  flourish  yet,  and  will  while  this  big 
world  wags.  I  wish  I  could  see  the  pretty  Magdalen'-^  game 
clearly,  but  I  don't.  I  wish  I  could  go  down  East  and  keep 
my  eye  upon  her;  she  is  an  interesting  study.  But  Fanny's 
there,  as  1  said  to  George,  and  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  can  stand 
Fanny.  Yes;  I'll  call  and  say  good-bye  to  thi.^  blue-eyed. 
fair-b«ired  divinity  of  Mr.  HoUis's  dreams.  1  want  to  see 
her  once  more.  I  wish  she  didn't  look  so  confoundedly 
like — "  Dr.  Phil  got  slowly  up  and  donned  his  coat,  which 
lay  ready  brushed  upon  a  chair.  '*  And  she  doesn't  like  mo, 
and  she  doesn't  know  why?    Odd,  that!" 

Dr.  Barstone  went  blandly  in  among  the  Traiting  patients, 
and  was  kept  there  over  an  hour. 

When  he  drove  away  froai  the  house,  his  first  visit  was  to 
the  St.  Nicholas,  where  he  found  his  cousin  s  wife  alone, 
writing  a  letter. 

She  put  the  letter  out  of  sight  at  his  entrance,  and  received 
him  abouu  as  cordially  as  a  statue  of  ice  might  have  done. 
She  sat,  pale  and  haughty,,  listening  frigidly  to  his  civil 
jpeeches  and  messages  for  home,  and  never  once  deigning  to 
unbf^nd.  -■ 

The  oall  was  necessarily  of  the  briefest;  even  Dr.  Philip^a 
assurance  could  make  Jittlo  headway  here. 

The  letter  Magdalen  was  writing  was  to  Willie,  and  w«| 
without  date  or  signature. 


'-^^S^  ■"--■-- 


MAGDALBN'S    VOW. 


U6 


a 


*"  •*  I  inclose  you  forfcy  dollars,"  she  wrote.  **  Make  it  last 
as  long  as  possible,  1  have  but  little  more  of  my  own,  and 
in  this  matter  I  can  never  ask  G.  for  money.  We  were  seen 
last  night.  1  can  meet  you  no  more  for  the  present.  We 
leave  for  Washington  to-day.  In  a  week  we  will  be  at  home. 
You  can  either  write  or  come  to  me  there.'' 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Barstone  departed  for  Washington,  and 
George  did  his  best  to  keep  Magdalen  constantly  amused  with 
the  sights  of  that  city.  Magdalen  was  very  quiet;  there  v^ere 
no  more  outbursts.  But  day  by  day  she  grew  wanner  and 
thinner,  and  the  smiles  that  came  and  went  were  no  more  lik^ 
the  old  smiles  than  starlight  is  like  sunlight. 

She  ivas  glad,  when  the  week  drew  to  an  end,  to  get  back 
to  Golden  Willows.  Once  there,  this  wretched  trouble  must 
speedily  culminate  in  some  way;  and  anything  was  better 
than  this  life  of  deception  and  enforced  endurance. 

On  the  day  of  their  departure,  as  they  sat  at  tea  in  their 
own  apartments — for  Magdalen's  head  ached — a  waiter  came 
in  with  letters — two  for  Magrlalen,  one  for  George.  His  was 
from  Aunt  Lydia,  hers  from  Willie  and  Fanny  Winters. 

She  opened  Willies  recklessly.  It  contained  but  thre© 
lines: 

**  Dear  M., — Received  money.  Thanks.  Will  follow  you 
to  G.  W.  next  week,  and  tell  you  all — the  darkest  part  of  this 
dark  story.  W." 

There  was  an  exclamation  from  George.  Magdalen  crushed 
the  note  in  her  hand  and  looked  up.  He  was  staring  at  Miss 
Barstone' s  epistle. 

**  Look  at  Fanny's  letter,  Magdalen,"  he  said.  "  Here's  a 
streak  of  luck!    She's  been  left  a  fortune!" 

**  A  fortune?" 

**  Yes;  sixty  thousand  dollars.  Pretty  well,  1  think.  A 
maternal  uncle  has  died  out  in  Sacramento,  and  made  her  his 
heiress.     Read  her  letter,  and  you  will  hear  all  about  it." 

Magdalen  opened  the  piuk-tinted,  highly  perfumed  missive 
-eight  closely  written  pages,  crossed  and  recrossed — *' plaid 
letters,"  as  George  called  them. 

Fanny's  delight  was  boundless.  A  whole  quire  of  paper 
would  not  have  held  it.  Here  was  romance  all  at  once!  She 
was  an  heiress!  Sixty  thousand  dollars  to  do  just  as  she 
pleased  witn! 

■  ''  I  am  writing  to  Phil  by  this  post,"  said  the  heiress,  in  a 
poswcrjpt.     *'  Of  couirse  he  doesn  t  care,  but  1  must  tell  him 


4' 

.r  * 


-■^': 


IK 

■^.• 


1, 


150 


jiagdalek's  VOV'% 


I.  1 1- 

I  t 


It 


I! 


ii 


of  it.  And  I'm  going  to  have  a  lady's-maid,  Magdalen,  to  do 
my  hair,  and  lace  my  Balmorals,  and  button  my  dresses,  and 
wash  my  hands  and  face,  if  I  like.  And  I  hope  Aunt  Lydia's 
head  won't  ache  until  she  gets  me  to  consent  to  having  an- 
other governess.  When  a  person  has  sixty  thousand  dollars 
to  do  just  what  she  likes  with,  she  can  get  along,  I  hope, 
without  any  help  from  Murray's  Grammar  or  Webster's 
Dictionary. 

**  Won't  we  have  our  *  At  Home  '  when  you  ccmo  back? 
And  won't  1  have  diamonds,  and  moire,  and  as  many  novels 
as  1  like  to  read?  Do — do  hurry  back!  I  have  fifty  thousand 
things  to  say  to  you,  and  1  am  your  aftectionate 

"Fanky."  ' 

Fanny  had  written  to  Phil.  At  that  very  hour,  in  New 
York,  he  sat  reading  her  letter.  And  this  is  what  Fanny 
wrote:         ,  /  - 

**  Dearest  Phil, — I  suppose  1  ought  to  be  positive, 
'dear,'  not  superlative,  *  dearest;'  but,  oh!  I'm  so  happy  I 
can't  help  it!  No;  I  don't  mean  that  I'm  happy — I'm 
dreadfully  unhappy — but  I  mean  that  I've  had  sixty  thou- 
sand dollars  left  me  by  my  ma's  brother,  out  in  California. 
Ma's  brother  is  one's  uncle,"  of  course;  but  one  can't  be 
dreadful  sorry  for  an  uncle  one  never  saw  since  they  were 
three  months  old — now,  can  they? 

**  Of  course,  I'll  go  in  mourning;  and  as  it's  cold  weather, 
and  as  black  becomes  me — my  dress-maker  says — I  don't  so 
much  mind.  But,  oh,  Phil!  I'm  not  a  bit  hapny!  People 
may  think  that  sixty  thousand  dollars  is  happfuess,  but  it 
isn't.  Of  course,  it's  very  nice,  and  I'm  awful  glad  to  get  it; 
but  there's  an  aching  void  in  my  heart  that  even  sixty  thou- 
sand dollars — and  it's  a  good  deal— can't  fill. 

**  Don't  mention  this  to  George^  1  would  never  hear  the 
last  of  his  stupid  jokes  about  it.  George  has  no  soul!  He 
thinks  because  a  person  has  a  very  good  appetite  and  grows 
iat — not  that  I'm  fat;  I  only  measure  twenty-eight  inches 
round  the  waist,  and  I  used  to  measure  thirty — -he  thinks 
(George  does)  a  person  has  no  secret  trouble. 

"Oh,  Phil,  I'm  so  lonely — so  lonely — sometimes!  I  sit 
upstairs  and  weep  by  myself;  and  I  wonder  what  you  are  do- 
ing, moving  amid  the  festal  throng - 
never  thinkinsr  once  ( 


guy- 


ing 


poor,  lonely  Fanny.  I 
picture  you,  Phil,  in  the  whirl  of  dissipation,  in  white  vest  and 
white  kid  gloves,  looking,  oh!  so  pale  and  handsome — George 
says  you're  yellow,  but  you're  not,  you  know— ftnd  flying 


7 


'I(»i36"*' 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW, 


157 


ihrongb  the  giddy  waltz,  with  some  lovely  young  being  on 
your  arms!  But,  oh,  Phill  don't  quite  forget  your  Funny! 
Think  of  me  sometimes,  in  the  lonely  twilight,  sitting  dcsolute 
at  ray  bedroom  window,  gazing  at  the  peaceful  stars,  and  so 
dreary,  and  so  sad,  and  so  utterly  alone  m  the  wide  earth! 

'*  No,  indeed!  Sixty  thousand  dollars  is  very  well  in  its 
way:  and  I'm  going  to  have  jewels,  and  splendid  dresses,  and 
French  confectionery,  and  travel  over  the  world;  but  it  can 
not  restore  peace  to  an  aching  heart. 

**  And  if  you  want  money,  Phil,  you  may  have  it  all — yes, 
every  cent — and  Til  do  without  the  dress  and  things,  more 
than  repaid  by  a  smile  and  a  *  Thank  you.  Fan!'  And  by 
and  by,  when  you  marry,  Phil,  some  tall,  dark,  handsome, 
haughty,  beautiful  lady,  not  a  bit  like  me,  you'll  ask  me  to 
come  and  see  you,  won't  you?  And  you'll  keep  a  little,  tiny 
corner  of  youi'  heart,  in  spite  of  your  beautiful  wife,  for  your 
loving  and  lonbiy  (♦bought  people  may  think  her  fortunate) 
cousin, 

"Fanny." 

**  P.S. — Do  come  down  to  Golden  Willows  soon,  Phil,  and 
make  us  a  long  visit.  Why  need  you  kill  yourself  with  horrid 
hard  work,  there  in  New  York,  when  we  all  want  you  here  so 
much?    Oh!  do  come,  please!    1  want  to  see  you  awfully! 

**  F  W  " 

Philip  Barstone  read  this  letter  over  very  slowly,  then  de- 
liberately twisted  it  up,  held  it  over  the  gas,  and  lighted  his 
cigar.  . 

**  The  die  is  cast!"  said  Dr.  Masterson's  assistant,  puflSng 
away.  **  Fortune  has  befriended  me  at  last.  Sixty  thousand 
dollars  bequeathed  to  that  girl!  I'll  go  down  to  Golden  Wil- 
lows, court  her,  and  marry  her  out  of  hand,  and  leave  the 
country  forever.  Aching  void  in  her  heart,  indeed!  We'll 
set  that  all  right  before  long.  Miss  Fanny  Winters!" 


CHAPTER  XX. 

**  and  yet  my  days  go  on,  go  on!" 

The  Ides  of  February  had  come.  It  was  the  third  of  the 
month,  very  late  in  the  afternoon,  when  Miss  Fanny  Winters 
drove  in  the  family  sleigh  down  to  the  Milford  station,  to  wait 
for  the  six-fifty  train.  She  drove  through  the  starry  twilight, 
as  in  a  triumphal  chariot,  to  bring  the  bride  «nd  bridegroom 
homeT 


158 


MAGDALEN'S   VOW. 


Miss  Winters  was  elaborately  got  up  in  white  fur  and  black 
yelvet,  and  with  her  rosy  iiheeks  glowing,  and  her  rather 
small  eyes  sparkling,  looked  quite  pretty  enough,  in  herself, 
to  attract  the  attention  of  sundry  young  Milford  gentlemen 
hanging  about  the  depot,  without  any  aid  from  a  recent  fort- 
une. Eut  the  news  had  spread,  and  Miss  Winters  and  her 
lucky  windfall  had  created  no  small  sensation  in  her  native 
town;  and  those  young  men  Hocked  around  llie  heiress,  and 
vied  with  each  other  in  paying  her  court.  This  was  the  real- 
ization of  Fanny's  dreams.  This  was  life — this  was  bliss!  To 
be  surrounded  by  half  a  dozen  of  the  best-looking  young  men 
in  the  town,  ready  to  blow  one  another's  brains  out  f  :)r  the 
favor  of  her  smile. 

And,  I  am  bound  to  say.  Miss  Winters,  for  a  young  lady 
with  a  secret  sorrow  upon  her,  showered  those  smiles  radiant- 
ly right  and  left,  and  made  herself  indiscriminately  delightful. 
Had  she  been  a  beauty,  she  would  have  been  the  veriest  flirt 
that  ever  tormented  mankind.  As  she  providentially  was 
not,  she  made  the  most  of  her  new  accession  to  power  now. 

The  train  came  thundering  into  the  gas-lighted  station,  and 
the  passengers  began  flocking  out.  Miss  Winters,  on  the  arm 
of  the  most  devoted  of  her  new-found  worshipers,  advanced 
eagerly  to  meet  Magdalen.  She  did  not  care  in  the  least  to 
see  George.  She  entertained  rather  a  feeling  of  contempt 
for  that  legal  gentleman,  who  yawned  horribly  when  she  tried 
to  read  aloud  the  *'  Princess,"  and  told  her  to  **  stop  that 
rot,"  when  she  quoted  copiously  from  the  *'  Revolt  o£  Islam." 
But  to  the  properly  constituted  female  mind,  a  bride  is  the 
most  interesting  of  earthly  objects,  except  a  new  bonnet  or  a 
new  baby;  and  Fanny  pressed  excitedly  tnrough  the  throng  to 
fling  herself  in  Magdalen's  arms. 

*'  I  say,  look  out.  Miss  Winters,"  her  conductor  exclaimed, 
**  or  you'll  get  trodden  down  in  this  crush.  Now,  then,  you 
old  kangaroo,  what  do  you  mean  by  elbowing  a  young  lady  in 
that  fashion?"  And  here  the  offender's  hat  was  tilted  angrily 
over  his  nose.  **0h!  here  they  are  at  last!  Is  that  other 
gentleman  one  of  'em,  Fanny?  He  looks  enough  like  George 
to  be  a  long-lost  brother?" 

Fanny  uttered  a  shriek—a  shriek  of  pure  joy. 

**  It's  Phil!"  she  cried—'*  it's  Phil!  Oh,  Mr.  Howard,  do 
let  us  get  through  this  crowd!"  /  • 

She  never  once  looked  at  Magdalen  now.  Was  not  that 
tall,  sallow,  dark-eyed  young  man  standing  there?  And  was 
not  the  dull,  half-lighted  little  station  turned  into  glorified, 
sunlit  Slysian  fields,  all  at  once,  for  this  girl  in  loyef 


»o 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


159 


black 
ruthor 
lerself, 
tlemen 
it  fort- 
mi  her 

native 
SB;  and  \ 
le  real- 
38 !  To 
ig  men 
f  i)r  the 

ig  lady 
ailiaut- 
ghtful. 
est  flirt 
lly  was 
now. 
on,  and 
;lie  arm 
Jvanced 
least  to 
►ntempt 
he  tried 
op  that 
[slam. " 
3  is  the 
aet  or  a 
iroDg  to 

laimed, 
en,  you 

lady  in 

angrily 

bt  other 

George 


rard,  do 

aot  that 
^nd  was 
lorified. 


Br.  Philip  Barstone  had  sent  no  intimation  of  his  intended 
yisit,  and  had  surprised  his  relative  by  walking  on  to  the 
steamer,  at  the  foot  of  Canal  Street,  upon  the  evening  of  their 
return  from  Washington,  and  announcing  his  intention  of  re- 
turning to  Milford  with  tiiom.  It  was  he  who  first  spied  the 
eager,  panting,  wildly  excited  little  heiress  now. 

°*  There's  Fan,'*  he  said,  coolly,  "battling  frantically  to 
get  at  us.     This  way,  George.     Don't  you  see  her?" 

A  second  later,  and  he  was  beside  her. 

With  a  cry  of  irrepressible  ecstasy,  Fanny  flung  herself  into 
his  arms,  and  kissed  him  on  the  spot.  Was  he  not  a  sort  of 
cousin,  fourteen  or  fifteen  times  removed?  And  was  it  not  a 
proper  and  commendable  thing  to  kiss  one's  cousin? 

*^0h,  Phil!  Phill  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you!  Oh!  I 
thought  you  would  come!  1  thought  you  wouldn't  forgot  u.^ 
altogether!  Oh!  what  a  surprise  this  is!  And  how  glad 
Aunt  Lydia  will  be!" 

**  Faith!  I  think  so,  if  she's  half  as  glad  as  her  niece,'  ,:aid 
George,  coming  forward,  with  Magdalen  on  his  arm.  '*  1  say, 
don't  eat  Phil  alive,  and  spare  a  few  of  your  embraces,  if  pos- 
sible,, for  other  acquaintances." 

Miss  Winters  flung  herself,  in  a  second  outburst,  into  the 
arms  of  Magdalen.  For  the  speaker,  he  was  unworthy  of 
notice.  Some  small  boys  near  grinned,  as  these  small  sar- 
donic wretches  will,  while  Mr.  Howard  stood  scowling  and  for- 
gotten in  the  background. 

**  1  thought  I  should  have  the  trouble  of  courting  her  be- 
fore 1  married  her,"  reflected  Philip  Barstone,  who  had  taken 
Fanny's  raptures  with  constitutional  calm.  **  But,  dear,  un- 
sophisticated child  of  nature!.  I  have  only  to  keep  quiet,  and 
she'll  do  it  herself. " 

Magdalen  smiled  as  she  kissed  Fanny — smiled  in  spite  of 
herself.  And  that  happiest  of  little  heiresses  hiitried  them 
toward  the  sleigh,  clinging  to  her  beloved  Phil's  arm. 

**  You  can  drive,  George.  I  have  ten  thousand  things  to 
say  to  Phil,"  said  Miss  Winters,  skipping  nimbly  into  the 
back  seat  and  making  place  for  Phil  beside  hor.  *'  And  to 
think  I  never  thought  you  would  come!  Oh,  Phil!  how  nice 
it  is  of  you  to  come  home!" 

Dr.  Phil  assented  complacently.  It  was  very  nice  of  him; 
but  then  he  was  a  nice  sort  of  person  altogether.  George 
took  the  reins,  and  away  they  flew  through  the  starlit  night. 

**  *  How  dear  to  my  heart  are  the  scenes  of  my  childhowll'  " 
drawled  Dr.  Phil,  **  *  when  fond  recoIlectioii5— '     Wlw^'a 


1 


J»4:J|*V' 


IP-. 


I- 


.ffl^py»m*Vi^"^Mf^ 


160 


Magdalen's  vow. 


the   rest,  Fanny?      Poetry's  rather  in  yodr  line,  isn't  it^ 
Would  you  object  to  my  smoking  a  mild  cigar?** 

Object?  Not  she,  indeed  I  If  this  sallow  young  man  had 
required  her  to  smoke  a*  mild  cigar  herself,  she  might  have 
made  faces  over  it,  but  she  \/ould  have  done  it  or  died.  Ob- 
ject?   Not  at  all! 

**  Ah,  no!  I  dare  say  you  wouldn't!**  Philip  replied; 
*'  but  Mrs.  Barstone  is  in  the  front  seat,  and  she  might.  Do 
you  know.  Fan,  she  has  the  bad  taste  not  to  like  yours 
truly?*' 

**  Not  like  you — not  like  you,  Phil?" 

Fanny  laughed  in  utter  incredulity.  Did  that  monster  in 
the  shape  of  woman  really  exist  who  could  dislike  this  pale- 
faced  demi-god  by  her  side? 

**  If  she  has  told  you  that,  Phil,  she  doesn't  mean  it.  I 
always  said  to  her,  if  she  had  seen  you,  she  would  not  marry 
George. " 

**  My  dear  little  complimentary  Fanny  1  Miss  Magdalen 
Wayne  might  have  lived  and  died  a  muiden  to  the  end  of  the 
chapter  for  me.  No,  Miss  Winters;  there's  another  pretty  lit- 
tle girl  whom  I  like,  and  who,  I  think,  likes  me,  and  I  don't 
want  to  break  her  heart.  Your  tall,  flashing-eyed,  »iajestio 
Junos  may  suit  some  men,  but  not  your  humble  servant. 
Give  me,"  said  Dr.  Philip,  looking  lazily  at  his  breathless 
little  companion,  **  something  plump  and  petite,  *  a  creature 
not  too  bright  and  good  for  human  nature's  daily  food!" 
There*s  more  poetry  for  you,  Fanny.  By  Jove!  I  didn*t 
think  there  was  m  much  in  me.  It  must  be  this  nice  moon- 
light and  your  inspiring  presence  that  does  it.  I  always  think 
you  have  about  the  chastest  article,  as  the  dry-goods  gentle- 
men call  it,  in  the  way  of  moonlight  here,  that  ever  1  saw." 

*'  Oh,  Phil!"  Fanny  cried.  **  And  you  really  are — ^^there 
really  is — I  mean,  there  is  some  one  you —  Oh,  Phil!  there 
it  some  one  up  in  New  York,  after  all?" 

**  Several  some  ones,  my  dear  young  lady!  Will  you  par- 
don the  dullness  of  my  intellect  if  I  tell  jou  I  really  don't 
quite  comprehend  your  highly  intelligible  remark?*' 

**  I  mean,"  said  Fanny,  in  a  trembling  little  voice,  looking 
piteously  out  at  the  moonlight  and  the  snow-drifts  —  **I 
mean,  of  course.  Doctor  Barstone,  there  is  a — a  young  person 
in  New  York  to  whom — to  whom  " — with  a  gulp — *'  you  are 
engaged!" 

*'  Engaged?"  repeated  Phil,  enjoyiiig  poor  Fanny's  misery, 
as  those  male  monsters  will.  '*  Well— yes.  To  a  young  per- 
0oa — DO.     I'm  engaged  to  Doctor  James  Masterion,  ol  that 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


161 


7' 


A 


ilk,  to  return  from  here  in  two  months;  but  you  can  hardly 
call  him  a  *  young  person,'  I  opine.  He  was  seventy-five  last 
birthday,  and  his  frosty  brow,  like  the  notorious  Mr.  John 
Anderson's,  is  like  the  snow.  I'm  engaged  to  him,  if  you 
like.     But  perhaps  that  wasn't  what  you  were  alluJing  to?" 

**  Now,  Phil,"  cried  Miss  Winters,  indignantly,  her  heart 
beginning  to  beat  again,  poor  child!  "how  caii  you?  Not 
that  1  care,  of  course — oh,  no!  You  may  marry  fifty  young 
ladieSj  if  you  like,  and  1  slia'n't  objeGt!" 

**  Shouldn't  you?  But  I'm  afraid  the  law  would,  my  dear. 
Fifty  young  ladies!  What  a  delicious  idea!  But  then  on© 
would  have  to  emigrate  to  Utah.  And  besides  that,  I  know 
one  young  lady  who  will  satisfy  every  desire  of  my  heart  just 
at  present. " 

*•  Where?"  cried  Fanny;  "  that's  what  I  mean.  Who  is 
she?" 

**  The  dearest  little  girl  in  the  world,  Fanny!" 

**  Little,  is  she?  Do  you  like  little  women,  Phil?  She  is 
taller  than  1  am,  of  course?" 

**  By  no  means,  my  dear;  just  your  size." 

**  And  she  lives  in  New  York,  of  course?" 

**  There's  *  of  course  '  again.  No,  she  doesn't.  She  lives 
in  the  country." 

"In  the  country!"  Oh!  how  Fanny's  heart  was  plunging 
inside  her  velvet  basque!     *'  Somewhere  out  of  New  York.^" 

"  Decidedly  out  oi  New  York.     So  far  out  that  it's  in — " 

A  dreadful  pause. 

**  Oh,  Phil!  where?"  cried  Fanny,  half  wild  with  hope  de- 
ferred. 

**  Well,  then  in — Connecticut." 

••Phil!" 

**  In  Mil  ford.  Now,  Miss  Winters,  you're  such  a  clever 
guesser,  tell  me  who  she  is.^  Begin  with  the  factory  girls, 
and  go  through  with  them  first." 

**  Oh,  Phil,  tell  mo!    Oh,  Phil,  I'm  dying  to  know!" 

•'  So  I  see!  I  wi^h  I  had  kept  count  of  the  *  Oh,  Phils!' 
since  we  sat  down.  They  would  have  been  interesting  to  re- 
member. Well,  Faiii:/  " — his  arm  went  easily  around  her 
waist,  and  his  blonde  mustache  came  very  near  the  round,  red 
cheek  in  the  moonlight — "  she's  a  dear  little  thing,  as  I  told 
you  before,  and  I'm  very  fond  of  her — uncommonly  fond  of 
ner,  for  that  mutter — and  her  name  is —  Oh,  Fanny  I  Fanny  I 
Fanny!  can't  you  guess?" 

He  drew  her  toward  him,  and  then —  But,  no!  I  dare  say 
you  have  been  in  a  sleigh  yourself,  some  moonlight  night,  with 

6 


162 


Magdalen's  vcw. 


;l 


somebody  beside  you,  and  you  know  better  thaQ  1  can  tell 
you. 

There  was  another  **  Oh,  Phil  I" — almost  a  sob  this  time  o.f 
intense  ecstasy.  The  poor  child-face  was  glorified  in  the  ivory 
light  She  loved  him,  and  she  had  gob  him  at  last.  And 
the  married  pair  in  the  front  seat,  if  you'll  believe  me,  neither 
heard,  nor  saw,  nor  dreamed. 

"Egad!"  thought  Phil  Barstone,  "if  this  isn't  striking 
while  the  iron's  hot  with  a  vengeance!  Did  I  do  it,  or  did 
she?  1  didn't  think  there  was  so  much  energy  and  determi- 
nation in  me.     What  the  deuce  will  Aunt  Lydia  say?" 

Aunt  Lydia  would  not  be  pleased,  that  was  certain.  She 
was  very  fond  of  her  medical  nephew,  but  she  knew  what  that 
nephew's  past  life  had  been,  which  was  more  than  Fanny  did, 
and  would  have  hesitated  before  intrusting  the  happiness  of 
any  one  she  wished  well  to  his  keeping.  Even  Fanny,  I 
thmk,  fond  and  foolish  as  it  is  in  the  nature  of  silly  eighteen 
in  love  to  be,  would  have  drawn  back  from  his  side  in  horror 
to-night,  had  she  known  all  that  lay  in  that  dark  record  of  the 
past. 

**  I  hope  Fan  won't  go  and  tell  I've  proposed  as  soon  as  we 
get  to  the  house,"  he  thought.  **  It's  going  a  leetle  too  fast, 
even  for  'me.  I  don't  think  she  can  construe  a  kiss  into  a 
proposal  of  marriage,  and  I  haven't  said,  plump:  '  Miss  Win- 
ters, will  you  be  my  wife.'  Why  the  deuce  need  1  care, 
though?  The  little  idiot  would  go  through  fire  and  water  if 
I  told  her — would  jump  into  Willow  Pond  yonder  if  I  said 
'  Go!'  And  her  consent  is  all  that  is  necessary,  1  take  it.  I 
hope  the  Sacramento  uncle  hasn't  tied  up  the  money  in  any 
absurd  way.  For  the  rest.  Fan's  of  age,  and  would  run  away 
with  me  to-morrow  if  I  said  *  Come!' 

And  then  a  memory  of  the  past — a  memory  of  another  girl 
as  young,  and  far  fairer,  who  had  left  father,  and  friends, 
and  home  to  follow  him  when  he  said  "  Come!" — obtruded 
itself  sharply  and  suddenly.  He  looked  at  the  white  faoe  of 
George  Barstone 's  wife,  gleaming  through  the  pearly  night  as 
if  cut  in  marble. 

**  What  the  devil  makes  me  think  of  her  at  this  time?"  he 
thought,  with  an  inward  oath.  "  She  would  have  died  just 
the  same  if  I  had  left  her — died  because  1  left  her.  Great 
Heaven!  if  1  could  only  forget  those  two  dead  women!  They 
have  haunted  me  since  I  saw  the  pale  face  of  this  girl  in  the 
■eat  there,  as  they  never  haunted  me  before.  I'll  marry 
Fanny  and  go  to  Paris,  and  never  return.  Surely  one  may 
find  the  waters  of  Lethe  in  that  far-distant  c?tj.    The  sooner 


f 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


163 


I  look  my  last  upon  Magdalen  Barstone's  marble  faoe^  the 
better/' 

They  reached  Golden  Willows-— the  dear  old  homestead 
brightly  lightec!  up^  and  sending  a  streaming  welcome  far 
'Dver  the  snow. 

George  threw  open  the  front  door  and  led  Magdalen  in* 

"Welcome,"  he  said,  **  to  Golden  Willows,  my  own  dear 
wife!" 

Her  heart  swelled;  she  could  not  speak.  The  drawing- 
room  door  stood  wide^  and  Aunt  Lydia,  in  satin  gown  and 
lace  cap,  sat  there  in  her  great  chair,  a  happy  smile  of  greet- 
ing on  her  sweet,  calm  face. 

"  Welcome  home,  my  children!''  she  said.  **  WhatI  Phil, 
too?  My  dear  boy,  what  a  surprise!  My  dear  Magdalen — 
my  dear  daughter!  1  am  heartily  glad  to  get  you  back. 
Golden  Willows  is  not  itself  when  your  sunny  face  is  absent " 

She  held  her  to  her  and  kissed  her  fondly.  Magdalen's 
face  drooped,  without  a  word,  on  her  breast. 

•*  Let  me  look  at  you,"  Aunt  Lydia  said — **  let  me  see  how 
New  York  and  Washington  have  agreed  with  you.  Why, 
Magdalen!" 

For  the  first  time  she  had  a  full  view  of  the  girl's  face — 
that  fair  face  so  sadly  changed  in  one  brief  month— so  wan, 
so  thin. 

'*  Why,  my  darling,  what  is  this?  You  are  gone  to  a 
shadow.     It  is  not  possible  you  have  been  ill?" 

"111?  Oh,  no,  except  for  an  occasional  headache.  Trav- 
eling disagrees  with  me,  I  suppose.  Just  now  I  feel  fagged 
to  death. " 

She  strove  to  speak  lightly — to  look  like  herself — ^before 
this  patient,  gentle  woman,  whose  life  had  been  so  full  of 
suffering.  But  Lydia  Barstotie's  clear,  earnest  eyes  saw 
through  that  bootless  effort,  i^he  glanced  at  George.  Dark 
on  his  face  lay  the  shadow  of  trouble,  too. 

**  So  soon!  Aunt  Lydia  thought,  with  a  sigh — **  so  sooni 
and  I  hoped — I  was  sure  they  would  bav«  been  so  happy! 
What  can  it  be?  Oh,  the  trail  of  the  serpent  surely  overlies 
all  th^t  is  best  on  earth!" 

**  I  declare,  Magdalen,  you  have  grown  thin!"  cried  Fanny, 
waking  out  of  the  egotism  of  her  own  great  bliss  to  the  worn 
change  in  her  governess's  face;  **  and  I'm  sure  you  didn't 
need  it.  If  it  had  been  me,  now!  But  it's  always  the  way — 
everybody  can  get  thin  but  me.  And  that  reminds  me,  I'm 
pretty  nearly  starved,  and  we  have  oysters,  and  cold  turkey, 
and  jellies,  and  chocolate  for  taa.     Come  upstairs,  Magdalen, 


ati«»uf.-»i*w.«i.-- 


164 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


w- 


and  let  us  take  off  our  things.    I  don't  know  how  it  may  be 
with  you,  but  I  never  was  so  hungry  in  my  life!" 

Miss  Winters  danced  away  upstairs  to  add  a  few  more  adorn- 
ments to  an  already  florid  toilet,  in  honor  of  Phirs  arrival. 

Magdalen  went  wearily  Jo  her  own  rooms.  How  pretty 
they  were  in  their  bright,  new  furniture— how  cheerily  the  fire 
blazed;  how  cozy,  and  home-like,  and  pleasant  it  all  was! 
There  were  the  pictures  she  liked,  the  draperies  she  had 
fancied,  the  carpets  she  had  chosen,  the  little  soft  nests  of 
rocking-chairs,  the  tall  mirrors,  the*  gleaming  statuettes. 
How  pretty  and  tasteful  it  all  was!  How  happy  she  had 
thought  to  be!  And  now!  She  turned  away  from  it,  sick  at 
heart.  What  did  the  loss  of  all  these  pleasant  and  pretty 
things  signify,  since  she  had  lost  the  husband  she  loved? 

**  And  I  am  bO  yoiing!"  she  thought,  with  a  dreary  de- 
spair, **  and  likely  to  live  so  long!  A  month  ago  1  would 
have  thought  death  a  dreadful  thing;  but  how  much  worse 
than  a  thousand  deaths  is  such  trouble  as  this?" 

A  tidy,  smiling  house-maid  came  iL  to  assist  her  unpack 
and  dress.  She  changed  her  traveling  oostume  for  a  trailing 
evening-robe  of  bright  blue,  and  agaiust  itfc:  deep  tints  her  gold 
hair  gleamed,  and  her  neck  and  arms  shone  like  snow. 

Miss  Winters  was  quite  gorgeous  in  mauve  silk,  with  the 
winding  train  so  dear  to  her  heart,  rosebuds  iind  ribbons  in 
her  hair,  and  necklace,  and  bracelets,  and  ear-rings  of  spark- 
ling stones,  flashing  splendidly  in  the  lamp-lighl;. 

**  I  don't  suppose  they're  rearl,  you  knov^,  Magdalen," 
Fanny  said,  alluding  to  her  jewels,  *'  because  I  got  them 
down  in  Milford,  and  the  whole  set  only  coit  thirty  dollars; 
but  they're  awful  pretty,  I  think,  and  glitter  lovely.  Dear 
me!  how  pale  you  are!  I  wish  1  could  look  pale  and  interest- 
ing; but  1  can't.  1  suppose  it's  on  account  of  my  appetite, 
and  it's  of  ho  use  drinking  vinegar!  I've  tried  it,  and  it  only 
makes  me  sick,  and  doesn't  do  one  particle  of  good.  Don't 
tell  Aunt  Lydia;  but  she  can't  understand  why  the  vinegar- 
cruets  are  always  empty.     Do  let's  hurry  down  to  supper." 

The  cozy  dining-room  of  Golden  Willows  looked  a  very 
pleasant  and  cheerful  apartment,  its  bright,  anthracite  fire, 
its  mellow  lamp-light  flooding  the  snowily  draped  table,  all 
a-sparkle  with  old  silver  and  fragile  china,  and  groaning,  if 
tables  ever  do  groan,  with  fmgrunt  creature  comforts. 

Aunt  Lydia  presided,  and  Funny  chatted  about  her  wonder- 
ful good  fortune,  and  Phil  cnme  out  of  his  constitutional  in- 
dolence and  talked  as  he  could  talk  when  he  chose. 

A  stranger,  passing  without,^ud  glancing  in  at  that  plot- 


MAGDALEN'S    TOW. 


lor. 


are,  migh»;  have  thought,  **  What  a  happy  family  party!" 
And  yet  black  Care  stood  grimly  behind  more  than  one  chair- 
baok,  and  a  skeleton  grinned  under  the  festal  roses. 

Perhaps,  of  the  five  persons  there  gathered,  Fanny  Winters 
was  the  only  one  really  happy. 

Magdalen  went  to  ihe  piano  after  supper,  at  Aunt  Lydia's 
request,  and  her  devoted  husband  sat  near  and  watched — as 
he  never  wearied  of  watching — that  pale,  lovely  face,  and 
drank  in  the  music  those  blender  fingers  evoked.  It  was  mel- 
ancholy music,  too,  in  which  the  passionate  pain  of  the  girl's 
heart  breathed. 

vShe  sung  the  plaintive  little  ballad  Fanny  had  sung  on  her 
wedding-eve,  a  weird  pathos  in  the  faintly  sighing  words: 

"  I  note  the  flow  of  the  weary  years, 

Like  the  flow  of  this  flowing  river; 
But  dead  in  my  heart  are  its  hopes  and  fears, 

Forever  and  forever; 
For  never  a  light  in  the  distance  gleams — 

No  eye  looks  out  for  the  rover. 
Oh,  sweet  be  your  sleep,  love!  sweet  be  your  dreams, 

Under  the  blossoming  clover — 

The  sweet-scented,  bee-haunted  clover." 

Her  voice  died  away  almost  like  a  sob.  • 

The  pair  in  the  d instant  corner  paused  in  their  billing  and 
cooing,  and  Aunt  Lydia  looked  at  the  singer  in  pale  anxiety. 

**  My  dear,"  she  said,  *'  you  have  chosen  a  mournful  song, 
and  your  singing  is  sadder  than  weeping.  I  think  Fanny  will 
have  to  come  and  give  us  one  of  her  rattling  polkas  to  dispel 
our  melancholy." 

**  I  am  very  comfortable  where  I  am,  thank  you.  Aunt 
Lydia,**  Fanny  retorted,  noftling  a  little  more  comfortably 
beside  Phil,  *'  and  1  don't  feel  in  the  least  melancholy.  Play 
us  some  German  waltzes,  Magdalen,  and  don't  be  so  dread- 
fully dismal,  if  the  honey-moon  is  over." 

The  heiress  kept  her  idol  by  her  side  during  the  whole  of 
the  evening,  and  did  her  best,  in  feminine  fashion,  to  wring  a 
proposal  out  of  him. 

**  He  as  good  as  told  me  he  was  in  love  with  me  in  the 
sleigh,"  she  thought;  **  but  still  he  didn't  say  plump,  *  Fan- 
ny, will  you  marry  me?'  1  wish  he  would,  I'm  sure  I  don't 
see  why  he  doesn't.  It  isn't  for  want  of  encouragement, 
go'orlness  knows!" 

Which  it  certainly  was  not;  but  all  the  young  lady's  hints 
and  ingenuity  could  not  induce  Dr.  Barstone  to  come  io  the 
point  that  first  evening. 


?«*=■■,- 


tf-f- 


■•  ~;%;jS3|^rt^s^S^^^ 


h    I 


Ui 


m 


Magdalen's  vow. 


**  I  see  your  drift  perfectly  well,  my  dear,"  he  said  to  hiitt 
self,  **  but  it  won't  do.  If  there's  to  be  a  proposal  to-night, 
you  must  make  it  yourself.  Aunt  Lydia  and  Georce  will 
know  well  enough,  no  matter  when  it  comes,  that  it  s  your 
sixty  thousand  dollars  1  am  marrying.  fcJtill,  let's  go  in  for 
decent  delay,  if  we  can.  There's  no  especial  need  for  hurry. 
I'm  not  likely  to  lose  you,  I  fancy.  You  shall  wait  a  couple 
of  weeks,  at  least. " 

Miss  Winters  went  to  her  room  disappointed  that  night. 

The  two  young  men  lingered  after  the  ladies  had  left  them 
to  smoke  a  cigar  under  the  frosty  stars. 
^  **  What  the  deuce  is  the  matter  with  your  wife,  George?" 
the  doctor  said,  abruptly.  "That  pale,  melancholy  face— 
those  mournful  songs!  She  has  some  trouble  on  her  mind, 
and  she'll  do  herself  mischief  brooding  over  it.  I  suppose  it 
is  that  unpleasant  business  of  Maurice  Langley?" 

**  1  suppose  it  is,  hang  him!"  George  answered,  with  a 
groan.  *'  1  ought  to  be  the  happiest,  and  I'm  the  most  mis- 
erable beggar  alive!  I  believe  that  Johnstone  is  at  the  bot- 
tom of  it,  too.  She  had  a  note  from  him  the  day  we  left 
Washington." 

"Ah!  she  had?    You  didn't  see  it,  I  suppose?" 

**  JJo.  She  refused  in  New  York  to  show  me  his  letters, 
and  I  could  not  ask  again. " 

**  It's  a  bad  business,  old  boy,"  Phil  said,  **  vrhen  a  wife 
receives  letters  from  other  men,  and  won't  show  thbm  to  her 
husband.  It's  a  blue  lookout  for  the  future  happiness  of  the 
pair.  Supposing  the  trouble  is  concerning  this  fellow  Lang- 
ley,  why  should  she  not  take  you  into  her  confidence,  as  she 
voluntarily  did  before  you  were  married?  How  have  you  for- 
feited her  trust  in  you?" 

**  How,  indeed?  Heaven  knows!  These  women  are  in- 
scrutable, Phil.  Before  we  were  married,  Magdalen  Wayne 
seemed  as  open  as  the  day — frank,  truthful,  trusting,  confid- 
ing— everything  woman  should  be.  And  now — and  now  a 
gnlf  yawns  between  us  that  I  can  not  cross.  I  have  won  her 
only  to  lose  her.  She  is  up  yonder,  but  she  might  as  well  be 
a  thousand  miles  away;  she  could  not  be  further.  I  tell  you, 
Phil,  there  are  times  when  this  mystery  and  secrecy  nearly 
drive  me  mad!" 
'  **  It  will  drive  her  mad  if  she  doesn't  take  care,"  Dr.  Bar- 
stone  answered,  coolly.  **  Let  her  brood  perpetually  on  this 
subject — let  her  nurse  her  morbid  melancholy,  her  Quixotic 
scheme  of  Tengeance— and  she'll  bring  up  in  Bedlam  befort 


^4 


haodalen's  tow. 


16? 


r.y. 
pie 


em 


»>> 


m- 


she  knows  it     I  don'fc  want  to  alarm  you  needlessly,  my  dear 
George,  but  1  tell  you  your  wife's  mind  is  in  a  bad  way." 

George  removed  his  cigar  and  looked  at  the  speaker  in 
horror. 

**  It's  quite  true/'  the  physician  said,  nodding  gravely. 
**  She'll  become  a  monomaniac  as  sure  as  we  both  stand  here, 
if  she  keeps  on  like  this.  She'll  fancy,  by  and  by,  every 
strange  man  she  meets  is  Maurice  Langley.  1  shouldn't  in 
'the  lest  wonder  if  she  accused  you  or  me  oue  of  these  days. 
Take  care  of  your  wife,  George — that's  my  advice  to  you. 
N  Let's  go  in — the  night's  a  nipper.  And,  sound  sleeper  as  yorf 
are,  I  don't  think  you'll  sleep  over  and  above  soundly  to- 
night," he  added,  mentally,  with  a  grim  sort  of  satisfaction, 
as,  night-lamp  in  hand,  he  sought  his  old  room.  **'  If  she 
only  keeps  quiet  until  I  have  married  Fanny  and  left  the 
country,  I  shall  be  eternally  obliged  to  her.  I  hate  a  scene 
as  I  hate —  And,  by  George!  what  a  scene  there  would  be  if 
the  truth  ever  came  out!  I'll  propose  to  Fanny  in  due  form 
in  a  week,  marry  her,  and  sail  for  Europe  before  the  end 
of  March.     She'd  marry  me  to-morrow  if  1  asked  her. " 

Philip  Barstone  had  been  eight  days  at  Golden  Willows,  and 
Philip  Barstone  had  not  proposed.  I  think  Miss  Winter  had 
some  right  to  be  aggrieved.  Miss  Winters  ivas  aggrieved, 
annoyed,  indignant.  When  a  gentleman  puts  his  arm  around 
your  waist  in  a  sleigh  the  first  time  he  meets  you,  and  kisses 
you  and  says,  **0h,  Fanny,  Fanny,  Fanny!"  in  that  tone — . 
well,  he  ought  to  have  intentions,  you  know.  But  the  long 
days  went  by — terribly  long  to  two  young  ladies  in  that  house 
— and  the  long  evenings  passed,  and  still  that  obstinate  young 
doctor  from  New  York  had  not  said,  **  Miss  Winters,  will 
you  do  me  the  honor  to  become  my  wife. " 

He  escorted  her,  with  the  politeness  of  a  Chesterfield,  to 
and  from  Milford,  and  made  a  martyr  of  himself  by  doin^  so; 
for,  being  an  indolent  young  man,  he  hated  walking,  while  a 
saunter  of  six  miles  or  so  was  nothing  to  his  energetic  little 
companion.  . .       -  r- 

He  drove  her  about  the  country  in  that  dear  little  shell- 
shaped  sleigh;  he  stood  by  the  piano  when  she  played  and 
sung,  and  victimized  himself  a^ain,  for  he  was  fastidious  and 
hypercritical  in  musical  matters,  and  Fanny's  discordant 
chords  set  his  nerves  on  edge  fifty  times  a  day. 

He  lay  at  full  length  upon  the  sofa  on  cold,  blustering 
days,  and  read  her  Tennyson  and  Owen  Meredith;  he  paid 
her  compliments;  be  gave  her  his  picture;  he  improved  her 


['■ 


if^^ 


■IwpaWi 


J 


t 


V   i 


I'  i  I- 


168 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW, 


waltzing;  he  did  everylhing,  in  fact,  but  what  she  wanted 
him  to  do — come  to  tV«e  poii:*;. 

uife  ha(1  goif^  bic^.  v3r  inc  to  itp  old  r'»utine  at  Golden 
Willows.  Geoi^e  \va,  hiiui^"8ea  in  business,  which  had  ac- 
cumulated during  h.i  sHs'vuu%  and  spent  his  days  from  early 
morning,  and  sometimes  late  is  i  the  night,  at  Milford.  He 
bore  his  trouble  with  a  brave  patience.  It  was  a  case  in  which 
he  could  do  nothing  but  wait. 

Time  might  dispel  the  mysterious  cloud  which  had  come 
between  him  and  the  wife  he  loved.  He  would  give  her  time, 
not  harass  her  with  questions.  In  the  peace  and  calm  of  their 
pleasant  home  this  abnormal  state  of  things  would  «ot  last. 
He  was  very  tender,  and  gentle,  and  loving — more  than  he 
had  been  even  in  the  sunny  days  of  his  wooing — and  there  was 
a  yearning,  wistful  light  in  the  oyes  that  sought  hers  every 
evening  upon  his  return.  IJe  ho^  d  for  some  sudden  change 
—some  sudden  transition  to  her  old  self — but  what  he  looked 
for  did  not  come.  He  found  her,  evening  after  evening,  as 
he  had  left  her  in  the  morning — very  quiet,  very  pale,  with  a 
sort  of  haggard  weariness  in  the  large,  gray  eyes. 

**  I  will  hear  from  Willie  to-day,*'  was  Magdalen's  first 
waking  thought  each  morning. 

But  the  days  passed,  as  days  of  trouble  and  heart-break  do, 
somehow,  and  she  had  not  heard. 

'*  I  will  have  a  letter  to-morrow,"  was  her  reflection  each 
night.  ^ 

Oh,  those  dreary,  lonely  nights,  when  she  lay  stark  awake 
^-thinking,  thinking,  until  madness  would  have  been  a  relief. 
No  wonder  she  awoke  haggard  and  hollow  each  morning. 

The  girlish  bloom  and  brightness  had  all  faded — the  old, 
glad  sparkle  had  left  the  dark  eyes — the  golden  light  had 
faded  from  the  yellow  hair.  Stately  and  fair  she  still  was; 
but  the  face  was  like  a  face  carved  in  marble,  and  the  faint 
smile  that  came  and  went,  at  rare  ini^ervals  was  as  cold  as  the 
pallid  starlight  glittering  on  the  snow.  /  • 

**  Why  does  he  not  write — why  doRS  he  not  come?"  she 
cried  out,  inwardly,  in  sudden,  wild  paroxysms  of  pain. 
**  Another  week  of  this  horrible  waiting  will  kill  me." 

You  see,  if  you  or  I,  my  brother,  were  going  to  be  hanged, 
we  would  like  the  day  to  dawn,  and  the  knot  fixed  under  our 
left  ear,  and  the  cap  pulled  down,  and  the  signal  given,  and 
the  unpleasant  little  operafion  ovor  as  soon  as  might  be.  To 
have  died  there,  loving  and  beloved,  with  George  kneeling  in" 
white  despair  by  her  bedside,  would  have  been  bliss  in  com- 


Magdalen's  vow. 


lb. 


parison  with  vvhat  must  come  soon;  but  it  must  come^  an4  the 
^  ^or.oi'  the  latul  hour  was  over  tlie  better. 

The  week  of  probation  went  by  as  all  weeks  go,  long  or 
short;  and,  porliaps,  under  his  placid  exterior,  Dr.  Philip  was 
as  impatient  as  Misn  Winters  herself  to  bring  the  courtship  to 
a  head.  Fanny  chafed  and  lost  her  temper,  and  pouted,  and 
sulked,  and  made  up  again;  but  through  ..  j."  Philip  Barstone 
-smoked  serenely,  and  walked  with  her  bv  mr  Jight  alone,  and 
drove  her  about,  and  listened  to  her  %w-^*b  und  chatter,  and 
was  faithful  to  his  word.  He  did  nc'  j:r«.  jose  until  the  time 
ho  had  appointed,  and  perhaps  Fann;/  n  vei'  counted  a  longer 
week  than  the  week  of  waiting  in  alJ    ?r  future  life. 

But  the  days  were  long,  and  the  Jiiipatience  of  another 
waiter  more  intense  than  her  own.  It  was  a  period  of  almost 
unendurable  suspense  to  Magdalen.  Why  did  not  Willie 
write?  Why  did  he  not  come?  How  could  he  leave  her  with 
her  terrible  secret  so  long?  She  longed  for  the  end  to  come 
— the  bitter  end.  That  end  came  very  soon.  Anything  was 
better  than  the  life  she  led  now. 


CHAPTER  XXL 

THE  LULL  BEFORE  THE  STORM. 

The  family  at  Golden  Willows  watched  the  new-made 
bride,  and  saw  clearly  enough  she  was  in  some  great  trouble. 
Aunt  Lydia  looked  at  the  wan  young  face  and  sad,  sad  eyes  in 
wistful  wonder  and  great  sorrow. 

**  What  can  it  be?"  she  thought.  "  Is  it  George's  fault? 
Surely,  not.  George  is  all  mortal  man  can  be — faithful,  lov- 
ing, gentle.  It  is  that  old  trouble  renewed  again — that  fool- 
ish vow>  which  I  hoped  she  would  forget.  It  is  no  groundless, 
girlish  sentimentality,  whatever  it  may  be,  and  George  is  fret- 
ting himself  to  a  shadow." 

She  spoke  to  the  young  man  one  evening.  He  had  come 
into  her  room  upon  his  return,  as  he  always  did,  to  ask  how 
she  was,  and  as  he  leaned,  tired  and  despondent,  against  the 
mantel,  staring  gloomily  into  the  fire.  Aunt  Lydia's  heart 
ached  for  her  boy. 

**  George,  my  dear,'*  she  said,  **  T  want  to  speak  to  you 
about  Magdalen.  What  is  this  that  has  come  between  you— 
that  ^  8  changed  her  so?  She  left  here  a  happy,  blooming 
bri^^  - 1  le  comes  back  a  pale,  worn,  wretched  woman.  What 
ia 


«i.»;' 


orge    groaned.    There  were   times   when   kis    trouble 
seeuied  fdmost  more  than  he  could  bear. 


^Lx 


_0**'rfr' 


■ 


•-    I 


1:0 


Magdalen's  voW. 


•*  Heaven  knows— I  don't !  I  would  give  half  the  years  1 
have  to  live  to  comprehend  the  mystery— to  win  back  my 
wiffl'fi  love  ' 

**  You  have  not  lost  that?"    ■ 

*•  I  have  lost  that— she  as  good  as  told  me  so  in  New  York. 
There  are  times  when  I  think  she  hates  me,  and  I — 1  would 
die  for  her!" 

He  stopped  suddenly.  I  think  in  the  flickering  fire-light, 
the  water  gleamed  in  his  eyes. 

**  My  George!  my  boy!"  Aunt  Lydia  said,  with  all  a  moth- 
er's yearning  love  in  her  face.  **  It  is  hard  on  you,  and  yet 
/  know  Magdalen  loves  you  as  dearly  as  ever.  We  women 
can  read  one  another's  hearts.  She  loves  you  as  dearly  as  she 
did  the  day  she  married  you;  but  1  believe  she  must  think 
you  have  wronged  her  in  some  way.  I  wish  you  would  tell 
me  how  and  when  this  change  occurred;  I  might  see  through 
it  more  clearly." 

George  told  her.  There  was  not  much  to  tell.  They  had 
returned  from  Mrs.  Moreland's  party  as  happy  and  united  a 
husband  and  wife  as  New  York  held.  He  had  gone  to  sleep 
in  the  gray  of  the  dawn,  and  when  he  awoke,  late  in  the 
afternoon,  the  change  that  puzzled  and  mystified  them  all  was 
there.  What  had  happened  in  the  interval,  he  could  not  tell; 
but  she  had  never  been  like  herself  since. 

**  Strange!"  Miss  Barstone  said,  thoughtfully — **very 
strange!  Magdalen  is  not  secretive  naturally — the  last,  I  be- 
lieve, who  would  make  an  unnecessary  mystery.  Has  she 
given  you  no  inkling  whatever  of  the  truth?" 

**  Well — yes.  Not  from  her,  however,  did  the  inkling 
come.  You  remember,  perhaps,  that  rash  and  melodramatic 
vow  of  vengeance  against  a  man  who  wronged  her  sister — 
Maurice  Langley?  In  some  way  or  other,  I  oelieve,  she  con- 
nects me  with  that  wretched  business.  I  believe  she  has  found 
him,  or  thinks  she  has. " 

"'  Connects  you  with  that  most  miserable  affair?  My  dear 
George!" 

"  1  don't  know;  I  think  so.  How  else  account  for  this 
sullen  silence  and  estrangement?  And  there  is  a  fellow  in 
New  York — a  distant  relative,  she  told  me,  named  Johnstone 
— who  writes  to  her,  and  whom  she  met  one  evening  on  the 
street  Phil  saw  them  together.  Whoever  this  tlohnstone 
may  me,  1  believe  he  is  the  cause  of  all  this  trouble. " 
Have  you  seen  his  letters?" 

**  No;  she  refused  to  show  them.  That  is  the  worst  of  it 
I  would  not  betray  mjr  wife  even  to  you.  Aunt  Lydift}  bat 


MAGDALEN* 8   TOW. 


'171 


Phil  knows,  and — and  I  ought  to  have  no  secrets  from  you, 
«rho  have  been  more  to  me  than  a  mother.  1  wish  you  would 
i{>eak  to  her.  She  always  loved  you,  and  to  you  she  seems 
Btill  unchanged.  Who  knows?  She  is  impulsive— in  one  of 
those  impulsive  moods  she  may  toll  you  what  all  this  wretched 
mystery  that  is  driving  me  h^lf  mad,  means.  It  would  be 
easier,  I  think,  to  lose  ray  darling  by  death — mine  still,  as  on 
my  wedding-day — than  to  lose  her  in  life  Mke  this!'* 

Again  silence  fell.  The  speaker's  voice  was  husky,  and  not 
to  be  trusted  foo  far. 

Aunt  Lydia's  heart  yearned  over  her  boy;  she  could  have 
taken  him  in  her  arms,  as  in  his  childhood,  and  comforted 
him  in  his  grief.  But  demonstration  was  not  in  her  way. 
Her  voice  was  very  quiet  when  she  spoke. 

**  I  will  speak  to  her,  George.  I  believe  she  will  tell  mo. 
Keep  up  heart — trust  in  God— all  will  yet  be  well. " 

Aunt  and  nephew  parted.  George  descended,  feeling  a  lit- 
tle more  happy  after  this  confidential  talk. 

Hope  came  easily  to  sanguine  George,  and  he  knew  very 
little  medium  between  the  sunlit  summit  of  hope  and  the 
black  depths  of  despair.  He  was  on  the  top  of  one  or  the 
bottom  of  the  other  at  a  moment's  notice. 

Magdalen  sat  at  the  piano,  playing  softly,  between  tho 
lights,  slow,  melancholy  music  of  Mozart's.  The  February 
wind  whistled  in  shrill  gusts  around  the  gables;  the  trees 
writhed  against  the  low,  leaden  sky. 

The  red  coal  fire  lighted  up  the  room  with  a  dull,  lurid 
glow,  now  leaving  the  figure  at  the  piano  in  darkness,  now 
lighting  it  up  with  a  sudden  fiery  leap.  By  the  window,  talk- 
ing softly,  sat  Miss  Winters  and  Dr.  Barstone — the  young  lady 
splendid  of  attire,  as  usual,  and  ceaseless  of  tongue. 

**  Here  comes  our  Darby,  to  hang  devotedly  over  tho  chair 
of  his  Joan.  Do  you  know,  Fanny,  it  strikes  me  Joan  id  in 
the  sulks,  and  has  been  ever  since  1  knew  her?  Perhaps  it's 
(her  normal  state,  however.  Or  do  you  think  some  old  flame 
of  George's  turned  up  in  New  York,  and  that  she's  jealous? 
George  was  on  the  verge  of  madness  about  at  least  eight  differ- 
ent young  ladies  in  that  city  some  years  ago." 

**  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  Fanny  responded.  **  She 
seems  dreadfully  unhappy  about  something,  and  she  keeps 
away  from  George  as  much  as  possible,  and  looks  at  him 
sometimes  in  the  strangest  way.  I  should  like  to  ask  her 
what's  the  matter;  bat,  somehow,  1  can't.  She  isn't  the  sort 
of  person  one  can  say  everything  they  like  to.  She  can  keep 
one  off  when  she  chooses.     And  she  uaed  to  be  veiri  fond  m 


rt\ 


I 


•  I 


173 


maodalen's  vow. 


George,  too,  though  I'm  sure  I  don't  seo  how  she  could  like 
any  one  who  lauglis  so  loud,  and  never  reads  anything  but 
stupid  law  booiis,  and  smolces  nnsty  black  pipes,  and  has 
large  hands  and  feet!  I  don't  think  it  can  be  his  fault,  be- 
cause it's  auite  ridiculous  the  way  ho  goes  on  about  her.  I 
wish  anybody  would-be  half  as  fond  of  me!"  said  the  heiress 
of  sixty  thousand  dollars,  with  a  deep  sigh.  '*  1  shouldn't 
treat  them  in  the  scornful  manner  she  treats  him.  But  no- 
body ever  will.  I'm  not  tall  and  beautiful  liive  Mrs.  Oeorge 
Barstone,  and  nobody  cares  for  little  dumpy  people  with  white 
eylr-shes  and  freckles,  lot  them  be  ever  so  amiable.  If  I  were 
married,  I  wouldn't  behave  toward  my  husband  as  Magdalen 
behaves  to  lers." 

**  No,  my  dear,  I  don't  think  you  would.  She  has  never 
dropped  you  a  hint,  then,  what  all  this  mysterious  gloom 
means?" 

**  Not  a  word,  though  I've  given  her  hints  enough  on  the 
subject,  goodness  knows!  It^  all  no  use,  however.  She 
never  pays  the  least  attention.  But,  of  course,  that's  to  be 
expected.     Who  ever  pays  any  attention  to  Fanny?" 

**  My  dear  child,  1  do!  I  pay  you  the  most  marked  atten- 
tion.    What  would  you  haver" 

Miss  Winters  looked  up  eagerly,  expectant.  She  knew  very 
well  what  she  would  have. 

**  You  don't  care  for  mo,  Phil — you  know  you  don't!  You 
said  you  did  the  night  you  came,  and  I — 1  believed  you,  you 
know,  because  f  always  was  a  goose.  Tf  I  was  tall,  and  had  a 
waist  like  a  wasp,  and  yellow  hair,  and  a  pale  face,  you  might 
admire  me.  Magdalen  has,  and  you  admire  her.  I'm  sure 
you're  always  looking  at  her  when  she  doesn't  see  you,  and  list- 
ening when  she  talks  and  sings,  and  -peaking  to  her  when 
she'll  speak  to  you — which  isn't  often.  I  do  believe,  Phil 
Barstone,  you're  half  in  love  with  your  cousin's  wife!" 

Miss  Winters'  eyes  quite  flashed  through  the  twilight.  This 
little  thorn  had  been  rankling  in  her  breast  for  the  past  four 
days,  and  she  felt  considerably  better  now  that  she  had  it 
oat. 

**  My  dear  little  Fanny,"  Phil  said>  rather  surprised  at  the 
young  lady's  sharp-sightedness,  *'  and  you're  a  victim  of  the 
green-eyed  monster!  My  dear,  you  do  me  too  much  honor;  I 
assure  you,  on  the  word  of  a  gentleman  and  a  moral  young 
physician,  I  am  not  in  love  with  George's  wife,  or  any  other 
man^s  wife.  And  I  told  you  before  1  didn't  afifect  tall  wom- 
en, nor  pale  yellow  hair,  nor  big,  gray,  solemn  eyes.  Lord 
Bvron  might  hate  dumpy  women— he  did. 


UAGDALBK'S    VOW. 


173 


buk  nobody  pays  any  attention  to  him  or  his  sayiiiga  nowa- 
duys.  And  it's  of  no  use  saying  nobody  cares  for  you,  because 
1  care  for  you  very  niuch— so  nuKili,  my  doar  little  darling 
Fanny!" — here  Dr.  Pliil  possossod  liimaclf  of  one  chubby 
palm—**  that  life  without  you  will  bo  a  waste  and  howling 
wilderness.  Fanny,  1  idolize  you!  Might  1 — may  I — dare  I 
ask  you  to  be  my  wife?" 

At  last — at  last  it  had  come!  Fanny  barely  repressed  a 
soream  of  delight;  but  (loorgo  and  Magdalen  wore  over  there, 
and  she  only  gave  one  gasp — one  gasp  of  pure  joy — and  said: 

**0h,  Phiir 

**  Yes;  I  think  I  have  heard  you  make  that  remark  before. 
I  adore  you,  Fanny!  I  worship  you  I — ui)on  my  word  and 
honor,  I  do!     Say,  oh,  say,  dearest,  you  will  be  mine?" 

The  last  seniiMice  sounded  rather  Lord  Mortimerish,  Phil 
had  a  vague  idea  that  he  had  read  it  somnwhere. 

Fanny  gave  another  gasp,  and  would  have  plumped  into  his 
arms,  but  Phil  caught  her  other  pudgy  palm  and  held  her  off. 

**  No,  don't,  Fan;  they'll  see  you,  and  we're  not  making 
love  on  the  stage,  where  spectators  are  allowed.  Just  say, 
*  I'll  marry  you,  Phil,'  and  make  my  earthly  happiness  com- 
plete." 

**  Oh,  Phil!  1  love  you  with  all  my  heart!  I've  loved  you, 
oh,  this  over  so  long!  And,  do  you  know,  1  thought  you 
c?  id  n't  care  for  me?  I  thought  you  would  marry  some  beauti- 
fi^l  young  lady  up  in  New  York,  and  then  1  should  have  died 
—yes,  Pliil,  1  may  bo  tleshy,  but  llesliy  people  die  sometimes 
— and  I  know  I  should  have  died  of  a  broken  heart.  And 
now  I'm  so  glad — oh,  so  glad! — and  I'll  never  snub  you  as. 
Magdalen  snubbed  George;  and  I'm  awf  illy  limnkful  I've 
fifot  sixty  thousand  dollars.     If  I  had  i'vice  sixty  yitn  should 


have  it,  every  cent.  And  if  you  hadF-'t  asked  ni  •,  I  would 
have  lived  and  died  an  old  maid;  and  \o,j  know,  Pj!;!,  it  isn't 
nice  to  be  an  old  maid  if  one  can  h^lp  one^s  self,  and  I've 
had  lots  of  beaus  ever  since  I've  haJ  my  legacy — real  nice 
fellows,  too,  down  in  Milford — and  1  neodn't  be  an  old  maid, 
if  I  liked.  But  I  wouldn't  listen  to  them  for  a  minute,  be- 
cause I  loved  you.  And  we'll  go  away— won't  we,  Phil? — and 
travel  everywhere,  and  enjoy  ourselves;  and,  oh,  Phil!  Phill 
I'm  just  the  happiest  girl  alive!" 

And  here  Miss  Winters  was  growing  hysterical,  and  there  is 
no  telling  how  the  scene  nii.c^dit  have  ended  but  for  the  timely 
entrance  of  a  house-maid  with  lamps. 

Phil  drew  a  ?ong  breath  of  relief. 

**  Thank  God!"  he  said,  inwardly.     **  I  thought  she  was 


1 


i 


174 


MAGDALEN'S    VOT?. 


going  to  fall  into  my  arms  on  the  spot.  If  I  don't  take  a 
Jittle  of  this  gushing  out  of  you  when  we're  married,  my 
name's  not  Barstone.'^ 

There  was  a  loud  knock  on  the  house  door.  It  was  a  relief 
to  escapt  from  Fanny,  and  Dr.  Philip  sprung  up  and  answered 
the  summons. 

The  postman  from  Milford  stood  before  him  with  a  letter 
in  his  hand. 

)  •*  Mrs.  Magdalen  Barstone,"  he  said,  and  gave  the  letter 
and  departed. 

The  young  doctor  took  it  into  the  drawing -room.  It  was 
addressed  in  a  masculine  hand,  with  a  big,  conspicuous  buS 
envelope. 

**  For  you,  Mrs.  Barstone,"  he  said,  handing  it  to  her  at 
the  piano,  superscription  uppermost. 

George  still  stood  behind  her  chair.  Ho  saw  that  well- 
known  writing,  and  his  heart  turned  sick  within  him. 

**  From  Johnstone  again,''  he  thought.  **  **  Will  these  let- 
ters never  cease?" 

Magdalen  turned  very  white  as  she  took  the  letter. 

•*  Thanks,"  she  said,  hurriedly,  as  she  rose  and  at  once  left 
the  room. 

There  was  an  awkward  little  pause.  Even  Fanny,  in  the 
blind  egotism  of  her  own  great  joy,  saw  that  something  very 
serious  was  wrong.  The  two  cousins  looked  at  each  other, 
and  both  knew  and  understood  as  well  as  though  they  had 
spoken.  -^, 

.  And  upstairs  in  her  chamber,  George's  wife  had-torn  open 
her  letter  and  read,  by  the  fiiciiering  fire-Jight,  down  upon 
her  knees: 

"  Milford,  Feb.  12. 

**  Dear  Magdalen, — I  arrived  this  afternoon.  1  am 
s'jopping  at  Freeman's  boarding-house,  33  River  Street.  I 
mut^t  see  you  to-morrow  without  fail,  lu  ie  time  you  knew 
the  worst.  You  shall  know  it  when  next  we  meet;  and  pre- 
pare yourself  for  something  a  great  deal  more  dreadful  tnan 
anything  you  knovv  at  present.  Drop  a  line  in  the  Milford 
post-ofSce  early  to-morrcw,  telling  me  when  and  where  to 
meet  you.    I'll  hang  about  the  office  all  day.    Don't  fail. 

**  Willie." 


MAGDALEN'S    TOW. 


175 


r. ' 


CHAPTER  XX IL 

THB  OLD  MILL  B\    THE   RIVER. 

Miss  Lydta  Barstone  sat  alone  in  her  chamber,  musing 
before  the  fire,  ere  she  went  to  bed  for  the  night. 
*  It  was  after  ten — lone  past  her  usual  time—but  her  con- 
versation with  George  had  banished  all  present  desire  for 
sleep.  She  sat  in  her  great  chair  before  the  grate,  musings 
with  a  troubled  face,  as  to  how  she  should  broach  the  subject 
to  Magdalen;  for  Magdalen  was  proud  and  high-spirited,  she 
knew,  gentle  as  she  had  hitherto  found  her,  and  would  make 
no  confidante,  even  of  her,  unless  the  wish  was  her  own. 

**  If,  as  George  says,  it  is  some  new  trouble  about  Maurice 
Langley,  why  should  she  make  a  mystery  of  it  now,  when  she 
told  the  whole  story  before  her  marriage?  And  how  on  earth 
can  she  connect  George  with  it?  Poor  George — poor,  tender- 
fa 'carted  fellow — he  deserved  better  fortune  than  that  And  I 
thought  thoy  would  have  been  so  happy!" 

There  was  a  tap  at  the  door. 

**  If  you're  not  asleep.  Aunt  Lydia,"  an  imploring  little 
voice  said,  *'  may  I  come  in,  please?" 

**  Come  in,  Fanny,"  Miss  Barstone  answered. 

And  Fanny,  in  a  loose,  white  morning-gown,  came  in,  her 
abundant  red-brown  hair  falling  in  a  perfumed  cloud  over  her 
shoulders. 

Fanny's  eyes  were  like  stars,  and  Fanny's  cheeks  like  roses, 
and  little,  blissful  smiles  came  and  went  of  themselves  about 
her  dimpled  mouth.  For  once  in  a  way,  great  happiness  had 
made  the  little  heiress  almost  beautiful. 

**  My  child,  something  has  happened — something  pleas- 
ant," Aunt  Lydia  said.  **  What  is  it?  Anything  about 
Magdalen?" 

**  Anything  about  Magdalen?"  Fanny  retorted,  with  a 
pout.  **  No.  You're  always  thinking  of  Magdalen,  all  of 
you.     No,  it's  something  about  myself." 

She  slid  down  in  a  heap  on  the  carpet,  at  Miss  Barstone's 
side,  and  buried  her  hot  face  m  the  old  maid's  dress. 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Lydia!  Fm  so  happy,  so  happy,  so  happy!  I 
can":  sleep,  I  can't  keep  still;  and  I  must  tell  some  one,  or  I 
shall  die!  Magdalen  is  cross  and  dismal,  and  has  been  shut 
up  in  her  own  room  all  the  evening — ever  since  her  letter 
came— so  I've  come  to  tell  you  I'm  just  the  happiest  girl  in 
^  the  world,  Aunt.  Lydia!" 


■:(S5* 


I   1-     !,■ 


176 


AfAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


The  truth  broke  upon  Miss  Barstono.  Fanny's  infatuation 
about  her  medical  nephew  was  no  secret  to  her,  but  hitherto 
she  had  troubled  herself  little  about  it. 

Phil  was  not  a  marrying  man  at  any  time,  and  if  he  had 
been,  little,  freckled,  and  dumpy  B'anny  would  have  been 
about  the  last  young  lady  he  would  have  chosen.  But  Fanny 
had  sixty  thousand  dollars  in  her  own  right  now,  and  the 
whole  case  was  altered. 

"It  is  Phil,"  Aunt  Lydia  said.  "  Surely,  surely,  Fanny, 
he  has  not — " 

**  But  he  hasi"  Fanny  cried.  **  And,  oh,  Aunt  Lydia,  I 
love  him  so!  I  love  him  so!  I  feel  just  wild  to-night,  I'm 
80  glad  I've  got  that  fortune,  becar.se  I  don't  believe  he  would 
ever  have  spoken  but  for  that." 

"Neither  do  I,"  said  Aunt  Lydia,  rather  shortly.  **  He 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself.  Not  a  week  here,  either*  1 
thought  better  of  Phil.  A  mere  fortune-hunter!  It  is  a 
shame!  a  shame!  a  shame!" 

'*  It's  nothing  of  the  sort,"  Miss  Winters  retorted,  spirited- 
ly. **  I  tell  you  1  love  him  so  well  that  I  should  break  my 
heart  if  he  married  anybody  else.  I  wish  1  had  sixty  millions, 
instead  of  sixty  thousand,  so  he  might  have  it  all!  Oh, 
auntie,  he  spoke  so  beautiful!  He  said  he  knew  he  was  un- 
worthy, that  he  loved  me  too  well  to  ask  me  to  be  his  wife 
while  I  was  poor,  for  was  he  not  poor,  too?  and  the  whole 
aim  of  his  life  should  bo  to  make  mo  happy.  And  he  asked 
me  when  1  would  marry  him,  and  I  said  just  as  soon  as  ever 
he  liked." 

"  You  said  that?" 

"Of  course  I  did!  It  was  the  truth,  you  know.  And  we 
are  going  to  be  married  c?rly  in  March,  and  sail  right  away 
for  Europe.  Won't  that  be  lovely?  And,  oh,  1  feel  as 
though  1  were  in  heaven,  not  on  earth!  And  he  is  an  angel 
— don't  you  say  a  word  against  him,  Aunt  Lydia.  He  is,  and 
1  worship  the  very  ground  he  walks  on!  I  left  him  out 
smoking  with  George  now,  and  I  bad  to  come  in  and  tell  jou, 
because  I  couldn't  kee{)  it  till  morning.  And  now  you  want 
to  go  to  bed,  dear,  darling  auntie,  so  I'll  run  away  and  send 
Susan.  I  wish  you  '.yero  as  happy  aG  1  am,  but  I  know  it's  of 
no  use  wishing  that.  No  one  on  earth  cotdd  be.  Good-night, 
Aunt  Lydia,  and  please  wish  me  joy!" 

"  God  bless  vou,  my  poor  child!"  x\unt  Lydia  said,  with  a 
heavy  sigh.     *   I  hope — J  hope  you  may  be  happy." 
,    "  Hope  she  might  be  happy!"  Miss'Wintors  smiled  to  her 


i 


1      F 


* 


« 


luny 
the 


\ 


-.^ 


* 


:..•■!  i^jirk.  xk 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


177 


self  at  the  thought,  and  little  trills  of  song  bnrst  from  her  lips 
as  she  tripped  away  to  bar  own  room. 

She  heard  Phil  and  George  saying  g-ood-night,  depart- 
ing^ to  their  rooms,  and  all  her  heart  thrilled  at  the  sound  of 
her  idol's  voice. 

**  Oh,  my  darling!  my  darling!"  she  vvhispered.  *'  I  wish 
it  was  morning,  ihat  I  might  be  with  you  agjiin!'' 

There  was  more  than  one  head  that  tossed  upon  a  sleepless 
pillow  that  night.  Aunt  Lydia's  slumbers  were  hardly  likely 
to  be  sweetened  by  her  ward's  communication.  She  hap- 
pened to  know  a  little  more  of  her  nephew  Phil's  antecedents 
than  Fanny  did,  and  thr.!:  little  was  by  no  means  reassuring. 

And  George — the  soundest  of  sleepers  in  a  general  way — 
found  that  mysterious  letter  from  Mr.  Johnstone,  which  his 
wife  had  received  that  evening,  anything  but  an  opiate. 

She  had  no^  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  and  he  and  Phil 
had  had  their  smoke  and  talk  out  under  the  black  night  sk^; 
but  neither  had  alluded,  ever  so  remotely,  to  that  letter. 

Perhaps  the  only  two  who  did  sleep  were  the  newly  be- 
trothed. Dr.  Phil  rarely  excited  himself  about  anything,  and 
his  last  waking  thoughts  were  not  of  Fanny,  but  Magdalen. 

**  The  postmark  was  Mil  ford.  So  ho  has  followed  her 
here,"  he  mused.  **  He  will  be  wanting  to  meet  her  some- 
where; for,  of  course,  he  won't  come  to  the  house.  I'll  keep 
my  eyes  upon  you,  Mrs.  Barstone;  and  when  you  meet  Mr. 
Johnstone,  I'll  endeavor  to  be  there  also.  Deuce  take  tlie 
fellow!  1  wish  they  had  kept  him  in  Sing  Sing  another 
month  or  so,  until  I  was  safely  married  and  out  of  the  coun- 
try." 

The  next  morning,  ere  Dr.  Barstone  had  left  his  apartment, 
there  came  a  message  from  his  aunt. 

**  Miss  Baistone's  compliments,  ploase,  and  would  be  step 
up  to  her  room  after  breakfast?" 

Phil  sent  an  affirmative  answer,  of  course.  He  understood 
the  whole  matter  at  once. 

**  Fanny's  been  telling  already.  What  a  hurry  she  was  in! 
However,  it  had  to  be  gone  through  with,  and  as  well  sooner 
as  later." 

His  betrothed  was  in  the  breakfast-room,  when  he  entered, 
waiting  for  him,  with,  oh,  such  a  radiant  face!  The  Febru- 
ary morning  was  raw,  and  leaden,  and  bleak,  and  bitter,  but 
the  girl's  happy  face  seemed  to  fill  the  room  with  sunshine. 

Poor  little  Fanny!  George  wa.s  there,  reading  a  crackling 
morning  paper,  and  George's  wife  sat  beside  the  coffee-urn. 


178 


Magdalen's  vow. 


I 


wailing  to  preside,  and  in  the  faces  of  those  two  people  Dr. 
Harstone  went  over  and  openly  kissed  Fanny. 

**  Good-morning,  my  dear,"  he  said,  languidly.  **  Really, 
you  are  growing  prettier  every  day.  Look  at  those  peonj 
ohceks,  my  dear  Mrs.  Barstone,  and  those  sparkling  eyes,  and 
all  those  smiles  and  dimples,  and  get  the  recipe,  it  freshens 
up  an  old  stager  like  myself  only  to  look  at  you." 

"  The  recipe  is  happiness,^'  Branny  cried,  delightedly; 
**  and  Magdalen  ought  to  have  it,  for  isn't  she  a  bride  just 
completing  the  honey-moon?  They  say  brides  are  always 
happy;  but  1  am  sure  they  never  can  be  half  so  happy  as  1 


am.  * 


:l 


There  was  rather  an  awkward  little  pause.  Mrs.  Barstone 
went  steadily  on  with  the  business  of  pouring  out  the  coffee. 
Mr.  Barstone  gazed  gloomily  ac  his  roll,  and  Dr.  Barstone 
inwardly  enjoyed  their  discomfiture. 

"  I  am  afraid  it  is  going  to  be  a  snow-storm,**  Fanny  con- 
tinued; '*  and  1  wanted  so  much  to  go  to  Milford  this  morn- 
ing. 1  shall  go  in  any  case.  You'll  drive  me  down,  won't 
you,  Phil?" 

Phil  professed  his  readiness,  and  breakfast  over,  went  at 
oncrfto  his  aunt's  room. 

He  found  her  much  as  Fanny  had  found  her  last  night — 
sitting  dejectedly  over  the  fire. 

**  Good-morning,  aunt.  I  trust  1  find  you  well  to-day. 
You  wished  to  see  me,  I  believe?" 

**  Yes;  come  iu,  Phil — sit  down.  It's  about  this  wretched 
affair  of  Fanny's." 

**  ^7r:itched  affair?  1  don't  understand.  Has  Fanny  come 
to  grief  hi  }\ny  way?" 

**  She  is  lii^ely  to,  i  think.  It's  not  possible,  Phil,  yon 
have  'ft?;'!/  >j3K(h1  h-u  to  he  yoir  wife?" 

**Oii^"  ';Jd  Dr.  Phil,  '^  'hafs  the  *  wretched  afiair '  to 
which  yc-ti  ailudo  is  it?  .A?y  good  aunt,  it  is  quite  possible. 
I  asked  Mis .  Wi'i^-ors  ^»ist  night  to  marry  me,  and  Miss  Win- 
ters said  *  "Vea     ipon  die  spot." 

There  wik  '•  certain  quiet  defiance  in  his  tone — a  certain 
latent  glitter  in  his  hazel  eyes  that  Aunt  Lydia  had  often  seen 
there  in  his  boyhood  when  he  meant  mischief.  It  warned  her 
that  entreaty  or  reproach  would  be  eoually  thrown  away  now. 

**  You  are  marrying  her  for  her  fortune,  of  course?"  she 
said.  Quietly. 

*'  My  dear  lady,  no — not  at  all.  Really,  such  plain  speak- 
ing is  barbarous.  By  no  meansi  I  am  very  much  attached 
to  Miss  Winters,  I  assure  you.     She  is  au  amiable  little  per- 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


179 


at 


8on^  I  believe,  as  it  is  in  the  nature  of  little  girls  with  bright 
eyes  and  freckles  to  be.  At  the  same  time,  men,  as  a  rule, 
don't  marry  young  ladies  because  they  e.re  freckled  and  amia- 
ble; and  though,  as  I  said  before,  I  am  deeply  attached  to 
Miss  Winters,  still,  perhaps  1  might  7iot  have  proposed  upon 
the  present  occasion  had  there  not  been  sixty  thousand  dollars 
in  the  background." 

**  Phil,  Phil!  have  you  no  sense  of  honor?  It  is  base,  it  is 
oruel,  it  is  inhuman!  And  this  unfortunate  child  loves  you 
so." 

**  Exactly.  And  this  unfortunate  child  will  consider  herself 
more  unfortunate  if  I  don't  marry  her.  Have  I  no  sense  of 
honor?  My  dear  aunt,  it  is  purest  philantrophy  to  make  her 
my  wife.  She  will  break  her  heart— she  says  so,  at  least, 
though  looked  at  professionally  the  statement  is  absurd — if 
she  doesn't." 

**  Philip,  1  can  not  countenance  this  match," 

**  My  good  lady,  I  haven't  ask  you,  have  1?  Miss  Wiuterei 
is  of  age — her  fortune  is  her  own — she  is  ready  to  run  away 
with  me  to-morrow,  if  I  ask  her.  1  am  an  eminently  re- 
spectable young  man  now,  and  mean 
eminently  respectable  manner.  My  y 
rationally,  li  /  don't  marry  Fanny  fr 
else  will.  She  isn't  a  beauty,  isn't  a 
f  ul  little  bore  as  a  rule,  and  whoever  i 
eye  to  the  main  chance,  guard  her  a^ 
be  very  good  to  her  when  she  is  M 

think,  even  if  I  weren't  very  good  to  her,  this  lovesick  little 
girl  would  still  be  happy  as  my  wife.  I  must  be  a  fascinat- 
ing fellow,  no  doubt,  to—" 

**0h,  Phil!"  his  aunt  cried,  in  a  pained  voice,  "don't! 
How  heartless,  how  cynical,  how  worldly  you  have  grown! 
There  was  a  time  when  you  had  sor  ^  affection  and  respect 
for  me. " 

**  That  time  is  yet,"  her  nephew  answered.  **  You  are  the 
only  woman  on  earth  whom  I  do  respect  very  greatly;  but 
still  in  this  matter  you  will  permit  me  to  judge  for  myself. 
Look  here.  Aunt  Lydia;  George  was  always  your  favorite 
nephew;  as  a  boy  he  possessed  the  larger  share  of  your  affec- 
tion, and  plum-cakes,  and  taffy,  and  pocket-money.  As  a 
man  you  like  him  about  ten  times  as  well  as  you  do  me. 
Well,  so  be  it — I  don't  make  a  howling  over  it.  He  deserved 
it;  he  was  always  the  good  boy  of  the  family,  and  I  the  black 
sheep.  He  slipped  once,  perhaps,  but  he  picked  himself  up 
very  quickly,  and  I  think  you  were  rather  fonder  of  your  ro- 


•  ^  get  married  m  an 

J  aunt,  look  at  it 

ler  money,  some  oue 

liius — she's  a  dread- 

i-ries  her  will  have  an 

)U  please.     1  mean  to 

*hilip  Barstone;  and  I 


u 


■■'  ..t' 


180 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


pentant  prodigal  than  ever,  weren't  you?  George  has  married, 
with  your  full  approbation,  a  tall,  stately  young  lady,  with- 
out a^penny  to  bless  herself  with,  who  comes  to  you  under  a 
false  name,  and  whose  relatives,  so  far  as  we  can  hear  of 
them,  are  about  fc\s  bad  a  lot  as  you  will  easily  find.  Your 
favorite,  George,  marries  her,  1  say,  with  your  free  consent; 
and  now  that  1  wish  to  marry  your  ward,  you  will  approve  or 
not,  ab  you  see  fit;  but— 1  shall  marry  her  all  the  same." 

Thu  glenni  in  his  brown  eyos,  the  hard  compression  of  his 
mustaohed  mouth,  wero  very  familiar  to  Auut  Lydia. 

**  1  have  nothing  more  to  say/'  she  answered,  quietly.  **  If 
George  has  been  ray  favorite,  you  know  whose  fault  it  has 

been,  also." 

**  Mine,  of  course.  Have  I  not  said  so?  Have  I  not  owned 
to  being  the  black  sneep  of  the  flock?  I  don't  complain. 
You  are  quite  right,  a3  you  always  are;  only  I  hope  you  will 
permit  Fanny  to  be  married  from  Golden  Willows,  and  out- 
wardly, at  least,  with  your  approbation." 

Miss  Barstone  bent  hur  head.  There  was  a  pause.  Her 
earnest  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  nephew's  cold,  hard,  hand- 
some face,  in  which  no  siscn  of  softening  came. 

**  1  want  to  ask  you  a  q-cstion,  Phil,"  she  said,  with  hesi- 
tation; **  a  question  which,  perhaps,  you  won't  like." 

**  Better  leave  it  unasked,  then,  my  dear  aunt." 

**  It  is  concerning  your— your  wife." 

Philip  Barstone  turned  on  her  almost  fiercely. 

**  My  wife!"  he  said.     "  What  wife?    I  have  no  wife!" 

*•'  1  mean  your  late  wife.  Where  did  she  die,  Philip?  and 
of  what?" 

The  gray  darkness  that  at  rare  times  overshadowed  the 
young  man's  sallow  face  overshadowed  it  now. 

'*  What  do  you  mean  by  speaking  of  hcr?^'  he  demanded, 
with  a  suppressed  intensity.  *'  George  had  to  bring  up  her 
name  in  New  York,  and  now  you  do.  What  do  either  of  you 
wish  to  learn  about  her?  Is  it  not  suftjcient  to  know  she  is 
dead,  without  dragging  her  out  of  her  grave  upon  every  occa- 
sion? 1  tell  you  I  won't  have  it!  She  died  in  Bellevue  Hos- 
pital—there! 1  have  seen  her  grave.  Will /Z^«^  satisfy  you? 
Now  let's  drop  the  subject  at  once  and  forever." 

He  took  out  his  handkerchief  and  wiped  his  face,  upon 
which  great  drops  stood. 

Miss  Barstone  eat  looking  at  him  in  mute  amaze. 

**  1  beg  your  pardon  for  this  violence,"  he  said,  after  a  mo- 
ment; **  but  I  hat©  to  look  back— 1  hate  to  think  of  that  bor- 


4 


■s.:ti&.. 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


181 


rible  time.  Do  you  suppose  it  can  be  pleasant  to  recall  the 
ma'l  folly  of  a  mad  and  reckless  youth?  I  am  doing  my  best 
of  iate  years  to  lead  the  sort  of  life  I  wish  to  Heaven  I  had 
led  always,  and  I  want  to  forget  the  rash  folly  of  past  years  if 
I  can.     lou  haven't  spoken  to  Fanny  of — of  this,  surely?" 

**  Do  you  think  I  should  not  speak  of  it?''  his  aunt  asked, 
gravely;  *'  or  has  she  not  the  right  to  know?" 

**  She  has  no  right  to  know;  it  can  in  nowise  affect  her.  I 
deny  that  any  man's  wife  has  any  concern  with  his  past.  Let 
him  be  faithful  to  h^*;  the  most  exacting  wife  can  require  no 
more.  I  don't  suppose  George- has  taken  his  wife  into  his 
confidence  about  that  little  lapse  of  his  past  and  gone.  He 
says,  and  rightly,  it  is  nothing  -  her.  No  more  it  is,  no 
more  is  my  past  to  Fanny.  No,  Aunt  Lydia;  J  refuse  giving 
my  permission  to  inform  her  of  this.  She  would  be  none  the 
happier  for  knowing;  and  now,  as  I  am  going  to  Milford,  1 
will  take  my  leave  if  you  have  quite  finished  with  what  you 
sent  for  me  to  say. " 

Dr.  Philip's  haste,  however,  was  by  no  means  upon  Fanny's 
account.  He  had  determined  to  watch  Magdalen  closely, 
Bomething  more  than  curiosity  to  gratify  being  at  stake  here. 
It  was  past  ten  by  his  watch  as  he  descended  the  stairs  and 
encountered  Fanny  in  the  lower  hall  gazing  at  the  dull  pros- 
pect without. 

*'  Oh,  you  have  made  your  escape!"  Miss  Winters  said,  ad- 
vancing to  meet  him.  **  I  thought  Aunt  Lydia  meant  to 
keep  you  with  her  all  day.  What  was  it  about?  About  me?" 
Well,  yes — 1  believe  your  name  was  mentioned.  I  thought 
you  wanted  to  go  to  Milford.  AVhy  are  you  not  dressed?  Gol 
hurry  up,  like  a  good  girl.  I  want  to  run  in  myself  for  a 
fresh  supply  of  cigars.  Get  Mrs.  Barstone  to  help  you.  She 
is  up  in  her  room,  1  suppose?" 

**  No,  she  isn't.  /She's  taken  the  cutter  and  driven  herself 
into  M.lford.  She  said  she  watited  to  visit  hor  dress-maker, 
but  I  know  she  is  going  to  post  a  letter,  because  it  dropped 
from  her  pocket  as  she  pulled  her  handkerchief  out.  1  sup- 
pose she's  been  writing  an  answer  to  that  letter  8he  got  last 
night — to  her  old  nurse,  most  likely.  Ikit  she*  ^aid  she  would 
be  back  by  eleven  at  latest;  so  come  into  the  breakfast-room 
and  let's  have  a  nice,  sociable  talk." 

Philip  Barstone  thought  a  moment  and  followed  her.  Ho 
would  have  given  a  good  deal  for  ;i  glanoa  at  the  letter 
George's  wife  had  gone  to  post.  We,  more  fortunate,  can 
break  the  seal  and  peep  in.    There  was  no  date  or  sigimture. 


'■■i^ 


182 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


**  Half  ft  mile  from  your  boarding-house,  on  the  bank  ol 
the  river,  there  stands  an  old,  disused  saw- mill.  The  spot  is 
lonely,  tht  3  is  no  house  near,  and  no  one  approaches  after 
night-fall,  as,  like  all  disused  places  of  the  sort,  it  is  popular- 
ly supposed  to  be  haunted.  I  will  be  there  this  evening  at  biz 
o'clock  if  possible. "  ..         , 


h 


r 


CHAPTER  XXHL. 

THAT  NIGHT. 


^ 


Mrs.  Barstone,  true  to  her  promise,  returned  to  Golden 
Willows  ere  elevon  o'clock,  and  Miss  Winters  and  her  lover 
departed  for  the  town. 

She  will  not  quit  llio  house  in  our  absence,"  Phil  thought. 
**  She  will  not  leuvi  Aunt  Lydia  alone,  and  she  can  not  ver^ 
well  receive  him  hero  in  broad  day.  To-night  will  be  the  earli- 
est time  she  can  possibly  meet  hiui." 

Dr  Philip,  therefore,  departed  in  very  good  spirits.  AK 
things  were  settled  now.  Nothing  remained  but  to  marry 
Fanny  and  go  abroad,  and  forget  all  the  little  unpleasantness 
of  by-gono  days  in  fair  foreign  lands. 

He  followed  his  afiianced,  with  a  ready  good-nature  George 
could  not  have  surpassed,  from  one  dry-goods  store  to  the  other, 
toning  down  her  gaudy  fancies  and  correcting  her  gorgeous 
taste  by  his  own  grave  one. 

They  lunched  at  a  saloon,  and  the  wintery  afternoon  was  at 
its  coldest  and  grayest  ere  they  returned  home,  the  little 
sleigh  quite  freighted  with  parcels. 

*'  There's  Georgel"  exclaimed  Fanny.  **  What  on  earth 
brings  him  home  at  this  hour?" 

Mr.  Barstone,  since  his  return,  never  made  his  ap2)earance 
at  Golden  Willows  from  the  eigbt-o'clock  breakfast  until  the 
six-o'clock  dinner.  He  was  ke*  very  busy  at  Milford,  and 
mostly  dropped  in  to  some  re  rant  there  for  a  middaj 
meal.     Now,  however   at  four  e  afternoon  he  was  stand- 

ing on  tho  doorstep  dr.      as  on  ,  ts  gloves. 

**  Something  new,  tn.s,  isn't  it?"  Phil  said.  "We  don't 
often  see  you  at  this  time    '  the  day.     What  brings  you  up?" 

**  Client  of  mine,  dyi' "  has  sei  ♦^  for  me  to  make  his  will. 
I've  made  it  five  times  re,  and  v^ery  time  he's  got  better 
and  changed  his  mind.  tw  le's  dying  again,  or  thinks  so, 
and  I  must  draw  up  u  si.,  i.  Ho  lives  fifteen  miles  out  of 
Milford,  so  1  shall  have  to  re  .in  all  night.  Now,  Peter,  m^ 
man,  as  1  want  to  catoh  the  U>i    twenty  ti 


X 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


183 


B 

r 


X 


drive  as  if  the  deuce  was  after  you!    By-by  all  until  to-mor- 
row." 

fle  sprung  in  and  wua  driven  away,  his  last  backward 
glance  directed  to  the  drawing-rcom  window,  where  a  quiet 
ugure  sat.  But  the  quiet  figurf  never  moved  nor  answered 
that  farewell  look.     She  was  only  thinking: 

**  Is  he  really  going,  or  does  he  suspect,  and  is  it  only  a 
ruse  to  watch  me?" 

Fanny  burst  in  upon  her  reverie  with  her  innmorable  par- 
cels, and  a  glory  of  dry-goOds  was  at  once  unfolded  for  Magda- 
len's inspection. 

The  time  had  been — and  not  so  long  ago — when  Magdalen 
would  have  had  all  a  woman's  keen  interegt  in  such  things— > 
when  the  hue  of  a  ribbon,  the  shade  of  a  silk,  the  pattern  and 
texture  of  the  laces  would  have  absorbed  her  most  vivid  atten- 
tion. But  that  time  was  jpast,  and,  divided  from  the  present 
by  a  dark  and  heavy  trouble,  the  happy  girl  sat,  a  haggard, 
wretched  woman. 

She  beheld  blue  silk,  and  pink  silk,  and  green  silk  spread 
on  the  carpet  in  vague  splendor  of  coloring;  but  the  hopeless 
eyes  never  lighted  up,  and  the  words  that  answered  Fanny's 
raptures  were  very  brief  and  indifTerent. 

**  I  declare,  it's  too  bad!"  Fanny  cried,  at  last,  losing  all 
patience,  and  gathering  up  the  ricn  textures  in  a  heap.  '*  I 
don't  know  what's  come  to  you,  Magdalen!  You're  not  one 
bit  like  you  used  to  be.  I'll  fetch  them  up  to  Aunt  Lydia — 
she'll  take  a  little  interest  in  me  and  my  wedding  clothes,  per- 
haps. If  marriage  changes  everybody  for  the  worse,  as  it  has 
done  you,  married  ladies  must  bo  nice  people  to  live  with. 
You've  grown  fifteen  years  older  in  five  weeks,  and  1  don't 
believe  it°s  George's  fault,  either;  because  it's  quite  ridiculous 
the  way  he  goes  on  about  you.  Perhaps  you  met  some  old 
lover  in  New  York,  and  are  breaking  your  heart  for  him  now 
when  it's  too  late.'* 

Magdalen  smiled  faintly,  but  the  smile  fad^d  as  quick  as  it 
came. 

**  I  beg  your  pardon,  Fanny,"  she  said.  **  The  dresses  are 
very  pretty,  and  1  wish  you  every  happiness.  My— my 
troublesome  headiiclie  is  back  again.  Whila  you  show  the 
things  to  Miss  Barstone  1  will  go  up  to  my  room." 

She  rose  slow-ly,  leaving  the  doctor  alone  in  the  drawing- 
room  with  his*book,  over  the  top  of  which  he  had  been  stead- 
fastly regarding  her.  She  lingered  for  a  moment  in  the  hall, 
looking  out  through  the  side  lights  at  the  rapidly  darkening 


_^^.  ^  "«>.»  *£»-■.!    Jt^  f»iin 


X 


184 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


It  was  hardly  five,  but  already  almost  night.  The  sky  lay 
low  and  leaden,  the  bleak  wind  tossed  the  bare  trees.  Moon- 
less, starless,  the  night  was  failing,  and  already  a  few  feathery 
flakes  whirled  through  the  opaque  air,  prescient  of  the  coming 
storm. 

As  she  lingered  there,  Peter  drove  rapidly  up  from  the  gate. 
She  opened  the  door  and  spoke  to  him: 

**  Peter!*' 

**  Yes,  ma'am." 

**  Was  Mr.  Burstono  in  time  for  the  train?*' 

**  Plenty  time,  ma'am — ten  minutes  too  soon.'' 

"You  saw  him  olf,  then?" 

**  Yes,  ma'am,"  Peter  answered;  and  the  girl  drew  a  long 
breath  of  relief. 

It  was  no  ruae,  after  all;  he  had  really  gone. 

**  It  is  three  miles  from  here  to  the  old  mill,'*  she  thought 
**  If  I  start  at  once  1  will  be  there  before  the  appointed  time. 
But  the  storm  is  increasing,  and  Willie  will  be  in  waiting,  I 
know." 

She  went  up  to  her  room,  put  on  her  warmest  jacket  and  a 
Berlin  hood,  and  took  an  unibrella. 

**  If  1  only  can  leave  the  house  unseen!"  she  thought. 

She  onencd  her  door  and  paused  to  listen.  All  was  still. 
In  Miss  Barstone's  room  she  (!ouId  hear  Fanny's  shrill  voice. 
She  was  safe  there,  and  \)r,  Philip  was  probably  absorbed  in 
his  book. 

She  went  swiftly  and  iighlly  down-stairs,  and,  standing 
where  she  stood  five  minutes  before,  was  Dr.  Phil. 

**  We  are  about  to  have  the  heaviest  snow-storm  of  the 
winter.  What!  my  dear  Mrs.  Barstone,  not  surely  goinff 
out?"  J'    6      5 

**  I  am  going  out,"  Magdalen  answered,  curtly.  **  A  walk 
will  do  my  headache  good." 

She  hated  herself  for  the  falsehood  she  told— she  hated  the 
man  who  made  her  tell  it— not  but  that  her  head  did  seem  to 
ache  (vith  a  dull,  perpetual  pain  of  late. 

*'  But  in  this  rising  storm?  And  see  how  it  increases  every 
instant!     My  dear  Magdalen,  what  would  George  say?" 

The  man  was  always  odious  to  her— doubly  odious  when  he 
called  her  by  her  name.  Her  eyes  quite  Hashed  in  the  twi- 
light as  they  met  his  sinister  hazel  orbs. 

**  He  would  say  1  was  free  to  do  as  I  pleased— as  I  shall!" 

With  that  reply  she  opened  the  house  door  and  walked 
rapidly  out  into  the  whirling  btorm. 

Dr.  Philip  looked  after  her  until  the  falling  snow  and  deep- 


<'J>»- 


-w 


haodalen's  vow. 


185 


©ning  darknesa  hid  her  tall,  slim,  gmcoful  figure  from  his 
sight. 

'*•  You  arc  going  to  meet  Mr.  Johnstone,  my  dear  Ma/j:da- 
len;  and,  as  the  coii.sin  of  your  husband,  it  in  my  duty  to  [)ro- 
tect  you,  even  against  your  own  will.  If  you  can  bravo  tiiis 
storm,  I  dare  say  I  can — tliougli,  u])on  my  soul,  1  had  much 
ratlier  you  had  chosen  a  finer  niglit." 

He  took  down  hlfi  hut  and  overcoat,  drew  on  Ids  gloves, 
and  taking  a  stout  walking-stick  of  George's,  opened  the  door 
in  turn,  and  was  plunging  resolutely  out  into  the  storm,  when 
Fanny's  hi<>h  voice  lujcosted  him  from  the  head  of  the  stairs: 

**  Phil!  Phil!  where  on  earili  are  you  going  tiiis  time  of 
evening?  Don't  you  know  it's  snowing  cats  and  dogs?  And 
dinner  will  be  reaily  in  half  an  hour." 

**0h,  confound  youl"  muttered  Fanny's  betrothed,  be- 
tween his  set  teeth.  "  The  Old  Harry  seems  to  send  that  girl 
always  in  my  way!  I'll  tell  her,  however.  Hero,  Faa — look 
here  a  moment!"  _^ 

Fanny  came  down  with  a  rush. 

**  I  say,  Fanny,"  her  lover  said,  in  a  confidential  under- 
tone, **  1  am  going  after  George's  wife.  8he  has  left  the 
house,  dressed  for  a  walk,  mind,  at  this  hour  and  in  this 
storm,  alone.  A  person  who  does  such  a  thing  as  that  is 
worth  watching.  I'm  going  after  her  to  see  she  comes  to  no 
harm.  If  you're  hungry  dine  with  Aunt  Lydia— don't  wait 
for  me." 

He  gave  Fanny  no  timo  to  reply;  he  departed  at  once;  and 
Fanny,  agapo  with  wonder  and  consternation,  went  straight 
back  to  Miss  Ikrstone's  room  and  imparted  to  her  the  tidings. 

**  Magdalen  must  be  going  crazy,  I  think,"  she  said  to  the 
alarmed  mi^ress  of  the  house.  *'  Nobody  in  their  senses  ever 
went  on  as  she  goes  on.  She  used  to  bo  fond  of  George;  now 
she  can't  bear  him.  She  used  to  laugh  and  talk  with  him, 
and  say  funny  things,  and  be  lovely  about  the  house;  now  she 
mopes  like  an  old  owl  in  the  daylight.  She  won't  even  look 
at  my  new  dresses,  and  she  never  once  asked  me  how  many 
bride-maids  I  meant  to  have,  or  whether  my  wedding-dress 
was  to  be  white  moire,  or  white  satin,  or  white  cotton  cloth. 
Do  you  suppose  yhe  can  have  some  old  lover  she's  pining  after. 
Aunt  Lydia?" 

"  Nonsense,  Fanny!  How  dare  you  suggest  such  a  wicked 
thing?" 

**  Oh,  it's  wicked,  is  it,  to  suggest  it  only?  And  Magdalen's 
perfection,  of  course;  she  wouldn't  do  a  wicked  thing. 
Now,  suppose  1  went  out  into  the  garden  to-night,  and  met  a 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


I.I 


1.25 


■U  Ui    |2.2 
2.0 


m 

u  1^ 


6" 


Hiotographic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WSk  TER.N.Y.  14580 

(716)  872-4S03 


186 


MAGDALEi^'S    TOW. 


%■' 


strange  iuan  there,  and  kissed  him,  and  walked  with  him,  and 
came  in  and  never  told  Phil  or  nobody,  what  would  you  call 
that?" 

Miss  Winters  spoke  defiantly,  tossing  her  red-brown  head. 
She  had  kept  Magdalen's  secret  a  long  time;  now  it  was  out, 
after  all. 

**  What  do  you  mean,  Fanny?"  Miss  Barstone  demanded, 
sternly.     **  Magdalen  nev^er  did  this." 

**  Oh,  didn't  she?  1  suppose  I  didn't  see  her  from  my  bed- 
room window,  either?  It  was  just  before  she  married  George 
— when  you  were  ill,  you  know;  and  she  did  meeh  a  man,  and 
she  did  kiss  him,  and  she  did  walk  in  the  garden  with  him 
for  half  an  hour;  and  1  never  spoke  of  it  before  to  a  creature. 
Maybe  she  tol^^George,  but — " 

Miss  Winters  pursed  up  her  lips  in  a  way  that  showed  she 
didn't  belie\re  it. 

Miss  Barstone  extorted  from  Fanny  all  Fanny  had  to  tell  of 
that  memorable  night.  And  while  Fanny  told,  the  unhappy 
culprit  herself  was  speeding  rapidly  through  the  double  dark- 
ness of  night  and  storm  to  the  place  of  tryst. 

The  road  was  very  lonely — the  darkness  intense;  but  Mag- 
dalen knew  it  well. 

How  often,  in  the  first  days  of  her  arrival  at  Golden  Wil- 
lows, she  had  strolled  away  with  Fanny  to  sketch  the  pictur- 
esque old  mill,  the  flowing,  rapid  river. 

The  cold  was  bitter;  but  she  was  warmly  clad,  and  never 
felt  it.  The  icy  wind  sent  the  frozen  snow  sharply  into  her 
face,  but  she  flew  on  before  it  almost  as  swiftly  as  the  wind 
itself.  It  gave  Dr.  Philip,  coming  after  her  with  his  long, 
man's  strides,  enough  to  do  to  keep  her  in  sight. 

The  falling  snow  muffled  their  footsteps;  his  keen  eyes 
could  just  discern,  athwart  the  white  darkness  of  the  snow- 
storm, the  rapidly  moving  figure  ahead. 

It  haunted  him,  that  weird  night  scene,  for  many  a  day  to 
come.  The  roar  of  the  angry  river  blended  with  the  shriek- 
ing of  the  wind  at  last.  The  lights  of  Milford  gleamed  lurid 
through  the  whirling  drifts;  the  great  factories  all  ablaze, 
their  tall  chimneys  vomiting  black  smoke  and  showers  of  fiery 
sparks. 

Turning  from  these,  Magdalen  took  the  deserted  pathway 
leading  down  to  the  river.  The  old  mill  loomed  up  black  in 
the  luminous  darkness.  The  way  that  led  to  it  was  slippery 
and  dangerous;  but  she  plunged  resolutely  ahead,  pausing 
only  when  near  its  yawning  entrance. 

"Willie!"  shecaUed. 


«« 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


187 


"  Halloo!"  answered  a  Toice. 

The  same  instant  a  figure  emerged  from  the  door-way  and 
fjtood  before  her.  The  figure  held  a  dark-lantern,  and  its  red 
vay  illumined  the  face  of  Willie  All  ward. 

**  1  am  here,  you  see,  Magdalen,  though  I  didn't  think  you 
would  come  in  this  confounded  storm.  You're  a  trump,  by 
George! — plucky  enough  for  anything.  Give  us  a  hold  of 
your  hand.  Look  out — it's  dangerous.  This  way.  I  sup- 
pose you're  about  frozen." 

"  Frozen!  No,  I  have  felt  no  cold.  For  pity's  sake, 
Willie,  put  that  lantern  out  of  sight.     Some  one  may  pass." 

**  Well,  if  they  do,  it  will  only  help  to  convince  them  that 
the  old  mill  is  haunted."  Willie  set  the  lantern  in  a  corner. 
**  No  one  can  see  it  now,  and  this  is  a  horrible  place,  and  such 
a  horrible  night.  Sit  down.  How  did  you  m^anage  to  get  off 
at  all  in  such  a  tempest?" 

*'  1  came — I  asked  no  one's  permission.  George  is  absent 
lor  the  night,  fortunately;  though,  had  he  not  been,  I  would 
still  have  kept  my  word  and  come." 

"  What  a  brick  you  are,  Magdalen!"  Willie  repeated,  ad- 
miringly. **  It's  a  pity  you're  not  a  man.  And  you'll  re- 
quire all  your  pluck,  I  can  tell  you,  to  hear  the  story  you  will 
hear  to-night." 

**  I  can  bear  it.  There  is  nothing  you  can  tell  I  can  not 
bear  now." 

**  Ah!  you  think  so;  but  this  is  the  worst  yet!  I  tell  you 
there  isn't  such  another  villain  on  God's  earth  as  the  man 
you  have  married.^' 

"  Will  you  go  on?" 

She  had  seated  herself  upon  a  pile  of  old  lumber,  her  hands 
clasped  hard  on  her  lap,  her  large,  luminous  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  blackness  beyond.  The  dull  red  glimmer  of  the  lamp  in 
the  corner  lighted  up  her  cold,  rigid  face,  while  Willie's  was 
shaded. 

And  through  the  ruinous  old  mill  the  wild  wind  of  the  win- 
ter night  shrieked,  and  above  its  cries  came  th?  roar  of  the 
river,  swollen  and  rapid.  A  fitting  scene,  a  fitting  time,  for 
the  story  Willie  Allward  had  to  tell. 

Slowly,  stealthily,  surely,  the  man  who  had  dogged  Magda- 
len from  the  house  dogged  her  to  the  very  entrance  of  the  old 
mill.  He  stood  boldly  in  the  dark  door-way  now,  leaning 
against  the  rotting  beams,  seeing  the  girl's  white  face,  and 
straining  every  nerve  to  oatch  the  words  Willie  Allward  spoke 
above  the  uproar  of  the  storm. 


188 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

TOLD    IN   THE    DARKNESS. 

*'  Before  you  left  New  York,  Magdalen/'  Willie  Allward 
began,  *'  I  told  you  what  you  had  to  hear  was  worse  than  any- 
thing you  had  heard  yet.  1  say  so  still.  It  is  infinitely 
worse.     Are  you  fully  prepared  for  what  I  am  going  to  say?'' 

"  And,  I  repeat,  it  can  not  be  worse,"  Magdalen's  voice 
answered,  out  of  the  pitch  blackness.  "  Nothing  can — noth- 
ing! No;  not  if  he  had  committed  a  murder  with  his  own 
hand!'' 

**  You  have  guessed  it!"  her  brother  said,  with  unusual 
jol&mnity.  **  He  has  committed  a  murder — a  horrible  mur- 
der— a  double  murder,  in  intention,  at  least.  Good  heavens, 
Magdalen!  what  a  fiend  incarnate  he  is!  A  man  who  has 
murdered  his  own  child— who  ilmiks  he  has  murdered  his 
wife!" 

*'  His  wife?" 

**  His  wife!  Oh!  Heaven  help  you,  Magdalen  AllwardI 
Yon  have  never  been  that  for  one  hour,  since  the  wife  he 
wedded  six  years  ago  still  lives.  You  are  what  your  sister  was 
before  you — betrayed,  dishonored,  wrecked  in  reputation  as 
well  as  in  happiness!  You  have  never  for  one  instant  been 
really  Maurice  Langley's  wife!" 

A  low,  wailing  cry  broke  through  the  darkness  and  the 
storm.  At  last  she  knew  he  had  spoken  the  truth.  She  had 
not  khown  the  worst. 

**  Perhaps  I  should  have  told  you  about  all  this  in  New 
York;  but  I  knew  if  I  did  you  would  have  left  him  at  once, 
and  our  game  would  have  been  up.  He  is  the  most  subtle, 
the  most  infernally  cunning,  as  he  is  the  most  deeply  dyed  of 
earthly  villains.    And,  besides,  I  wanted  to  consult  Caroline." 

*'  Caroline!"  The  voice  of  his  wretched  sister  spoke  out  of 
the  darkness  once  more— so  hollow,  so  hoarse  he  scarcely 
recognized  it.     **  She  is  the  wife?" 

"  She  is.  Her  name  is  Caroline  Eeed,  and  she's  at  present 
waiting  my  summons  to  come  down  here  and  confront  the 
murderer  of  her  child.  But  I  will  begin  the  story  at  once. 
The  cold  is  bitter.  You  will  perish  if  I  keep  you  here." 
^Magdalen  laughed — a  blood-curdling  laugh.  The  listener 
in  the  door- way  shuddered  ns  he  heard  it.  The  words  he  was 
too  far  distant  to  catch  through  the  turmoil  of  the  storm. 

**  Cold!"  she  said.     *'  1  wonder  what  cold  or  heat  would 


Magdalen's  vow. 


189 


•T-. 


affect  me  now?  Yefa,  Willie,  begin  the  story  you  have  to  tell. 
Let  me  hear  what  a  vile  wretch  1  am  and  how  low  1  have 
fallen!" 

**  You  have  Laura's  letter/'  Willie  began,  hastily  drawing 
nearer.  *'  Rachel  told  me  of  that.  And  in  that  letter  she 
has  told  you,  of  course,  how  an  anonymous  note  first  informed 
her  she  was  not  Maurice  Langley's  wife — that  his  wife  lived 
and  was  ready  to  prove  the  validity  of  her  cblm.  Laura  may 
have  suspected  before.  Langley  was  never  sober  in  those 
days,  and  when  very  drunk  used  to  babble  like  an  idiot — his 
own  secrets  and  all.  She  ran  away  that  very  night,  as  you 
know — returned  to  the  poor,  deserted  old  homestead,  and  died 
there.    All  this  you  know?" 

**  Yes,"  Magdalen's  hollow  voice  said. 

**  It  was  the  next  day — rather,  the  next  night — before  the 
news  reached  me,  and  then  not  through  Langley,  you  may  be 
sure,  I  was  waiting  for  him  in  a  well-known  gambling  hell, 
wild  to  retrieve  my  losses  and  save  myself  from  arrest  for  for- 
gery— for  the  fatal  deed  that  has  ruined  my  life  had  been 
already  done  through  his  instigation — when  IVarns,  another 
gambler,  and  drunkard,  and  profligate,  and  iioretofore  the 
closest  crony  of  Langley,  swaggered  up  to  me  as  I  stood  sul- 
lenly alone. 

**  *  1  say,  Allward,'  he  said,  with  a  tipsy  wink,  '  how's  our 
Damon,  our  Jonathan,  the  friend  of  our  bosom,  our  well-be- 
loved Maurice,  to-night,  eh?    Not  got  here  yet,  hey?' 

**  1  growled  out  surlily  that  I  had  tiot  seen  him.  I  was  in 
no  mood  for  idle  talk,  and  1  had  always  felt  an  aversion  to 
this  man. 

**  Burns  laughed,  a  diabolical  gleam  of  malice  in  his  little 
green  eyes. 

"  *  I'm  afraid  our  Maurice  has  been  out  of  sorts  to-day,  and 
Lthink  I've  had  my  revenge  for  all  the  insults  I've  put  up 
with  from  him  lately.  The  fat's  in  the  fire;  the  cat's  out  of 
the  bag;  the  little  party  from  the  country  has  vamoosed  the 
ranch.' 

**  '  What  do  you  mean,  you  drunken  vagabond?'  I  cried, 
savagely. 

**  I  knew  he  was  not  aware  Laura  was  my  sister.  I  knew, 
too,  that  she  was  *  the  little  party  from  the  country  '  of  whom 
he  spoke. 

** '  Drunkard,  am  I?  Vagabond,  am  I?'  he  replied,  inso- 
lently. *  I  am  not  a  forger,  at  least.  You  see,  it's  **  kiss 
and  tell  "  with  our  dear  Maurice.  You  know  the  pretty  little 
girl  from  Down  East  Langley's  had  with  him  the  past  eight 


T 


! 


?. 


190 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


months?  Thinks  she's  his  wife — poor  little  green  gooseberry  I 
His  wife,  indeed!  Ha!  ha!  I  wonder  how  many  such  wives 
he's  had?  Now,  Allward,  you  may  know  what  an  ungrate- 
ful brute  the  beggar  is,  when  1  tell  you  1  played  parson  for 
him  that  time,  and  did  it  so  well  that  the  little  person  from 
!New  Hampshire  never  once  suspected  the  truth.  She  found 
it  out  last  night,  though,  and  made  off  at  that  minute,  by 
George!    Spunky  little  Yankee  girl,  wasn't  she?' 

**  I  shook  the  beast  off,"  said  Willie,  drawing  his  sister 
closer  to  him.  **  He  had  one  filthy  paw  on  my  shoulder,  and 
his  reeking  breath  blew  in  my  face. 

*' '  Faugh!'  1  said,  *  keep  your  distance,  you  sot,  and  tell 
me  what  you  mean.' 

"  *  If  you  weren't  a  blockhead,  you  wouldn't  need  to  ask, 
but  the  verdancy  of  the  clover  and  the  hay-fields  sticks  to 
you,  my  daisy.  Don't  you  know  the  party  m  Green  Street? 
You've"  been  there  with  Langley.  He's  fleeced  you  there 
more  than  once.' 

"  '  Yes,  yes!    What  of  her?' 

**  *  Run  away,  my  lad — cut  her  lucky — left  Langloy  in  the 
hirch.  !Not  that  he  cares.  He  was  sick  of  her  before  the  end 
of  the  honey-moon.  Honey-moon!  Ha!  ha!  I  wonder  how 
many  honey-moons  he's  had?' 

**  *  Why  did  she  leave  him?'  I  said,  in  an  agony.  *  You 
scoundrel!  do  you  mean  to  say  the  marriage  was  a  sham  one, 
and  that  you  performed  it?' 

*'  *  Yes,  my  daisy.  You've  guessed  it.  I  married  'em, 
and  a  neater  knot  was  never  tied.  But  Langley  insulted  me 
last  week — threw  a  decanter  at  my  head,  by  Jupiter! — and  I 
swore  I'd  be  revenged.  So  I  hunted  up  Caroline — Caroline 
is  his  wife,  you  understand,  married  two  years  ago  by  a  regu- 
lar white  choker,  and  got  a  kid  nine  months  old,  very  image 
of  its  fascinating  papa.  T  found  out  Caroline,  as  I  told  you 
—horrid  little  hole  over  in  Brooklyn— and  told  her  the  whole 
story  of  the  little  party  from  New  Hampshire.  Lor*!  how 
rough  she  cut  up!  These  here  wimmin  beat  the  doose.  Now 
there  was  that  girl  Caroline.  Langley  hadn't  done  a-blessed 
thing  for  her  for  a  year-.^never  had  been  near  her,  you  may 
say — left  her  to  starve  with  the  kid — and  she  bore  it  all  like  a 
what-yon-may-call-*em? — an  angel,  and  treated  him  like  a 
dook,  sir,  when  he  did  come.  Bat,  Lor'  bless  you!  no  sooner 
does  she  hear  he's  got  another  wife,  than  she  cries  out  and 
goes  on  most  awfully— -was  for  flying  over  to  New  York  that 
minute  and  tearing  Miss  Laura's  eyes  out.  I  coole?rher  down 
presently,  got  her  to  write  a  note  to  wife  No.  2,  and  dropped 


m^mem^^ 


Magdalen's  vow. 


191 


it  in  the  post  for  her.  Little  New  Hampshire  received  it,  and 
there  was  the  devil  to  pay  when  Maurice  came  home.  It  was 
the  middle  of  the  night.  But  what's  the  middle  of  the  night 
to  a  young  woman  when  she  gets  her  back  up?  Poor  Maurice 
is  a  widower  to-day.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  that's  why  you  don't  see 
him.' 

**  He  was  swaggering  away,  with  a  drunken  wink  and  leer, 
bat  I  caught  him  and  held  him  fast.  1  believe  1  was  half 
choked  with  rage  and  fear  for  Laura. 

**  *  You  beast!'  I  cried,  *  stand  still,  or  I'll  throttle  you! 
Tell  me  where  Laura  has  gone?" 

** '  Don't  know,  Allward — 'pon  my  word  1  don't!  I  sa}^ 
don't  tear  a  man's  coat,  and  don't  glare  in  that  insane  fash- 
ion.    What  the  doose  was  little  missy  to  you?' 

**  *  She  was  my  sister,  you  cold-blooded  wretch!  By  heav- 
ens! if  you  weren't  drunk  as  a  fool,  and  old  enough  to*  be  my 
father,  I'd  strangle  you  where  you  stand!  Tell  me,  you  hoary 
reprobate,  where  I'll  find  Langley,  or  1  shall  be  tem^^ted  to 
do  it  yet!' 

**  I  had  the  strength  of  a  giant.  Boy  though  I  was,  the 
feeble  old  drunkard  was  a  child  in  my  grasp. 

** '  1  don't  know,  Willie,*  he  whimpered,  *  s'elp  me  if  I  do. 
Let  go,  there's  a  good  fellow.  Perhaps  he's  gone  to  Brooklyn 
to  blow  up  Caroline.' 

**  *  Give  me  her  address  this  moment,'  1  said,  *  or — ' 

**  *  Yes,  yes;  here  it  is.  Let  go,  Allward.  How  the  dickens 
was  I  to  know  that  missy  was  anything  to  you?    I  say,  let  go!' 

"He  gave  me  the  woman's  address,  and  I  released  him. 
Not  upon  him  should  vengeance  be  wreaked.  If  I  had  met 
Langley  that  night,  I  would  have  had  his  life. 

**  1  started  for  Brooklyn  at  once.  The  street  was  one  of  the 
poorest  and  most  remote;  the  house,  when  I  found  it,  little 
better  than  a  hovel,  standing  apart  in  some  swampy  land.  It 
was  almost  two  o'clock  when  I  came  upon  it,  but  a  light  still 
gleamed  from  its  wretched  windows.  All  was  still  around. 
The  other  houses  up  the  street  were  distant  and  dark.  I  drew 
close  to  the  door,  and  heard  the  voice  of  Langley  distinctly. 
He  spoke  loudly  and  recklessly,  as  "he  always  did  when  intoxi- 
cated, and  a  female  voice  answered  him,  passionate  and  de- 
fiant: 

**  *  I've  borne  starvation,  and  brutality,  and  desertion  from 
you,  Maurice  Langley!'  I  heard  her  cry.  'I  tell  you  I  will 
not  bear  this!  Yes;  I  wrote  that  letter,  and  Burns  told  me 
the  marriage  was  o£  his  own  making.  Oh,  you  villain — you 
villainl    Why  did  I  not  die  before  ever  I  saw  your  wicked. 


102 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


false  face!  False — doubly,  trebly  false!  False  in  name,  for 
your  name  is  ' — the  name  I  could  not  catch — *  false  to  the 
aunt  who  loves  and  believ.8  in  you!  But  I  will  expose  you! 
1  will  hunt  her  out!     1  will  tell  her  all — 1  will — ' 

*'  kShe  never  finished  the  sentence.  An  imprecation  so 
horrible  that  I  can  not  repeat  it  broke  from  Langley.  I 
sprung  to  the  window  and  dashed  it  in,  but  too  late.  There 
was  a  shriek— a  crash— another,  and  another.  He  had  lifted 
the  heavy  wooden  chair  upon  which  he  sat — a  huge,  old-fash- 
ioned, hard-wood  chair — and  struck  her  down,  with  that 
tremendous  oath.  Her  child  was  in  her  arms.  It  gave  one 
cry — no  more — as  mother  and  child  went  crashing  down. 
The  first  blow  had  fractured  its  skull.  Twice  he  dashed  the 
heavy  ''  fiir  upon  them  as  they  lay.  Before  it  fell  the  third 
time  .  smashing  of  the  casement  and  my  shout  for  help 
reacheu  him.  He  dropped  the  chair,  threw  open  an  opposite 
window,  leaped  out  into  the  darkness,  and  disappeared.'' 

Willie  AUward  paused.     Cold  as  the  night  was,  great  drops- 
stood  on  his  face  as  he  recalled  that  horrible  scene.     He  tried 
to  see  his  listener's  face,  as  it  gleamed  like  marble  through 
the  gloom. 

**  You  are  listening,  Magdalen?"  he  said,  chilled  by  her 
unnatural  quiet. 

"I  listen.     Goon." 

**  My  shout  had  reached  a  policeman's  ear.     He  sounded 
his  club,  and  was  by  my  side  as  we  leaped  into  the  room. 
Child  and  mother  lay  weltering  in  blood — the  child  stone  dead; 
— its  brains  dashed  out;  the  mother  still  faintly  breathing. 

**  The  little  cottage  filled  as  if  by  magic.  A  dozen  men 
started  in  pursuit  of  the  murderer,  but  he  had  doubled  like  a 
hare  in  the  darkness.     The  search  was  fruitless. 

"  The  woman  could  speak.  She  clasped  her  dead  child  to 
her,  and  looked  up  at  me  as  I  stooped  and  whispered  the  name 
of  Maurice  Langley. 

"  *  He  has  done  this,'  I  said.  *  Denounce  him  before  it  is 
too  late.' 

"  '  No,'  she  said — or  rather  whispered — *  1  will'^never  de- 
nounce him!  He  was  mad  with  rage  and  liquor.  The  fault 
was  mine.     Let  him  go.     I  only  wanted  to  die.' 

**  She  fainted  clear  away  as  she  finished.  I  tell  you,  Magda- 
len, it  was  a  blood-curdling  sight — the  dead  child,  the  dying 
mother.  Many  there  knew  her.  Her  name,  they  said,  was 
Mrs.  Reed — a  decent  sort  of  person,  who  went  out  washing  for 
herself  and  child.  She  had  a  husband  somewhere,  who  once 
in  a  rare  while  came  to  see  her.  That  was  all  that  was  known. 


.r 


*.v 


) 


MAGDALEN  S    VOW. 


193 


•*  They  took  her  to  Bellevue  Hospital,  and  the  story  was  in 
the  papers,  and  search  was  made  for  the  murderer;  but  all  in 
vain.  They  did  not  even  know  his  name.  It  was  supposed 
to  be  Reod.  1  called  the  next  day  at  the  hospital,  and  saw  the 
nurse  who  had  the  care  of  Caroline. 

•*  She  was  still  alive,  the  nurse  said,  but  sinking  fast.  I 
gave  the  woman  five  dollars,  and  asked  her  to  do  what  she 
could  for  the  unfortunate  patient.  1  wanted  to  see  her,  but 
that  was  refused.  I  never  went  again,  for  on  that  day  came 
my  arrest,  imprisonment,  trial  and  sentence,  and  four  years 
at  Sing  Sing. 

**  Why  did  1  not  denounce  Langley  then,  and  tell  all  I 
knew?  Because  that  would  not  have  been  half  revenge. 
Lanirley  was  in  safe  hiding  somewhere.  If  denounced,  he  ^ 
"  would  fly  the  country,  and  perhaps  escape  punishment  alto- 
gether. And  Burns,  who  could  have  proven  against  him, 
)  was  dead — had  been  stabbed  on  that  very  night  in  the  gam- 
bling hell  in  a  brawl.  I  waited,  Magdalen — 1  bided  my 
time. 

*'  *  I  will  servo  my  time  out,'  I  thought,  '  and  then  for  you, 
Mr.  Maurice  Langley!* 

"  Laura's  death  reached  me.  It  was  only  another  item 
added  to  the  long  reckoning.  I  went  to  prison  and  served  my 
four  years — four  years  of  infinite,  endless  misery — and  came 
out  to  find — what? — to  find  Maurice  Langley  a  happy  and 
prosperous  man,  and  my  sister  Magdalen  his  wife!  No;  not 
-  nis  wife,  for  Caroline  Reed  lived,  and  lives,  and  will  be  here 
to-morrow.'* 

Once  more  there  was  a  pause.  Once  more  Magdalen's  voice 
broke  it,  hollowly,  out  of  the  darkness: 

*'  Go  on,"  she  said—'*  go  on  to  the  end.  TDhe  wife  did  not 
die?" 
^  "  No;  she  did  not  die.  I  had  found  and  had  an  interview 
;  with  her  before  I  paid  you  that  visit  at  Golden  Willows.  Had 
I  known  then  that  Langley's  name  was  Barstone,  and  his 
home  in  this  State,  I  might  have  saved  you;  but  it  was  only 
within  the  past  two  weeks  that  Caroline  Reed  told  me  her 
story,  and  then  I  had  to  extort  it  from  her  by  threats. 

"  She  has  been  an  altered  woman  since  that  fatal  night. 
All  womanly  spirit  seems  to  have  left  her.  She  is  but  the 
poor,  pale,  frightened  shadow  of  herself  now. 

**  I  hastened  to  Ihe  hospital,  the  first  thing  after  my  release, 
and  inquired  for  Mrs.  Soott,  the  nurpe  in  whose  charge  Caro- 
line had  been  placed.  Mrs.  Scott  still  retained  her  situation, 
and  came  to  me  at  once;  but  1  had  some  difficulty  in  recall- 

7 


s-^«' 


194 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


ing  myself  to  her  recollection.  I  asked  for  Caroline  Reed— a 
patient  who  had  been  in  her  charge  four  years  back.  Could 
she  recall  her?    Yes;  Mrs.  Scott  recalled  her  perfectly. 

**  *  Did  she  live  or  die?'  I  asked. 

**  *  Well,  young  man/  the  nurse  answered,  *  one  of  'em 
lived,  and  one  of  'em  died,  and  1  don't  know  which  you  want. 
You  see,  I  shouldn't  remember  so  easily,  for  four  years  is  a 
long  time,  but  my  own  name  is  Caroline,  and  there  happened 
to  be  two  Caroline  Reeds  here  that  time  together.  One  was  a 
shocking  accident,  the  other  was  galloping  consumption. 
Which  is  the  one  you  want?' 

**  *  The  accident,*  I  said,  eagerly.  *  It  was  a  brutal  at- 
tempt-ftt  rouider.  Her  child  was  killed.  Do  not  tell  me  she 
is  the  one  who  died. ' 

*' *  No,' said  the  nurse;  'she's  the  one  that  came  round, 
though  nobody  ever  thought  she  could  come  round.  Her  head 
was  smashed  dreadful,  and  her  ribs  were  broke;  but,  la!  she's 
as  well  as  you  or  me  to-daj,  and  a  most  respectable  party, 
though  poor.  She  does  plain  sewing — she  sews  for  me.  I'll 
give  you  the  address,  if  you're  a  friend. ' 

**  She  wrote  the  address  in  pencil  and  handed  it  to  me. 

**  *  She  was  a  peculiar  young  woman,'  Mrs.  Scott  remarked. 
*  Never  would  tell  of  the  man  who  had  so  near  killed  her — 
her  husband,  of  course,  tho  brute! — and  he's  not  been  found. 
There  did  come  a  man  here  one  day,  about  six  months  after, 
to  inquire  for  Caroline  Reed;  but  1  didn't  see  him.  It  was 
another  nurse — who  had  charge  of  the  consumption  case — and 
she  told  him  Caroline  Reed  was  dead  and  buried.  She  didn't 
know  of  the  other,  you  see,  and  I  make  no  doubt  it  was  Reed 
himself. ' 

**  [  sought  out  Langley's  wife  at  once,  and  found  her,  in  a 

■^  little  room,  in  the  very  poorest  part  of  the  city,  half  starved 

— not  able  to  earn  enough  to  keep  soul  and  body  together. 

She  looked  at  me  with  such  a  white,  terrified  face  as  I  came 

in,  that  I  had  to  hasten  to  reassure  her.  r 

*'  *  Don't  be  alarmed,'  I  said.  *  I  am  a  friend.  Don't  you 
remember  me?  It  was  I  who  broke  in  that  night  when  Lang- 
ley  so  nearly  murdered  you.' 

' "  She  uttered  a  cry  and  covered  her  poor,  thin  face  with  both 
hands  at  the  sound  of  his  name. 

'*  *  I  haven't  heard  it  for  four  years,'  she  said,  *  and  it 
makes  me  ti*emble  to  hear  it  now.  Oh,  sir,  for  the  love  of 
-JGrod,  don't  tell  him  I  am  alive!' 

**  *  I  will  not  Don't  be  frightened.  I  hate  him  as  much 
as  you  can  possibly  do.' 


I, 


.V— •       '' 


li 


maodalen's  vow. 


105 


*( 


ked  up  at  me  with  great  hollow,  wild  black  eyes, 
him?     she    repeated,  mournfully.      *  Oh,  no,  I 


(4 


(( 


She  looked  ui 
**  *  Hate 
don't  hate  him  I  Once  1'  loved  him,  and  he  loved  me;  but 
that  is — oh,  such  a  weary,  weary  while  ago  I  I  think  that 
Caroline  Reed  is  dead  and  buried,  and  that  this  is  some  other 
miserable  wretch  who  bears  her  name  and  her  broken  heart. 
But  I  don't  hate  my  husband!' 

**  *  You  don't  hate  him?'  I  said,  incredulously.  *  And  he 
murdered  your  child!' 

She  rocked  herself  to  and  fro,  in  hard,  tearless  misery. 

He  did  not  mean  that.  He  was  drunk.  1  was  wicked 
and  ti;unted  him,  and  rage  and  brandy  drove  him  mad.  The 
fault  was  mine.  He  did  not  know  what  he  was  doing.  Oh, 
my  baby!  my  baby!  my  baby!'  "■'' 

*'  She  sobbed,  but  shed  no  tears.  She  still  rocked  ceaseless- 
ly to  and  fro,  with  sunken,  glittering,  dry  eyes. 

*'  '  He  thinks  you're  dead,'  1  said.  .  *  You  have  never  met 
him  since,  then?' 

**  *  Yes;  I  have  met  him — passed  him  so  closely  on  the 
street  that  my  rags  brushed  his  coat.  He  did  not  linow  me. 
I  wore  a  veil,  but  he  would  not  have  known  me  in  any  case. 
See,  sir:  I  am  only  twenty-six  years  old,  but  my  hair  is  gray, 
and  my  face  is  fleshless  and  old.  Six  years  ago,  when  he 
married  me,  1  was  a  pretty  girl — yes,  sir;  you  may  not  believe 
it,  but  1  was  a  pretty  girl.  1  had  long,  black  ringlets  down 
to  my  waist,  bright,  black  eyes — brighter  than  the  stars  of 
heaven,  he  has  told  me— roses  and  dimples,  and  all  the  bloom 
and  freshness  of  happy  twenty  years.  And  I  loved  him — ah! 
so  dearly,  so  dearly! — and  we  were  married,  and  my  heaven 
was  on  earth,  and  no  angel  up  there  could  be  happier  than  1. 
Do  you  think  he  would  know  me  now?  He  is  a  gentleman; 
he  is  young,  handsome,  and  well  dressed  still.  Perhaps  he  is 
happy.  I  don't  know.  He  killed  his  child,  and  he  thinks  he 
has  killed  me.  I  wonder  if,  in  the  dead  of  night,  when  his 
rich  and  gay  friends  are  gone,  and  the  stir  of  life  is  hushed, 
our  faces  do  not  rise  up  to  haunt  him?  I  wonder  if  he  clai-e 
sleep  in  the  dark?  xoung  man ' — she  fixed  her  spectral, 
black  eyes  solemnly  upon  me — *  are  you  his  friend  or  enemy?' 

**  *  His  enemy!'  I  answered,  between  my  set  teeth — *  his 
deadliest  enemy  on  earth!  If  I  had  him  here,  I  could  throttle 
him  as  I  would  a  serpent!  I  am  the  brother  of  the  woman 
whom  he  did  to  death!' 

*' '  The  woman  to  whom  I  wrote?  Ah!  poor  child!  Tell 
me  your  story  and  hers. ' 


19G 


Magdalen's  vow. 


**  I  told  her  all— all,  Mngilalon—Laura's  death,  my  im- 
prisonment, and  my  oath  of  revenge. 

'*  *  I  call  upon  you  to  help  me,'  1  said.  *  It  is  our  right. 
It  is  not  revenge;  it  is  justice.  Such  monsterd  should  not 
pollute  the  earth  I  1  call  upon  you,  Caroline  Keed,  to  help 
me  avenge  my  sister!' 

**  *  I  will  help  you,'  she  answered,  to  my  surprise.  *  What 
do  you  want?' 

** '  Tell  me  his  real  name — tell  me  where  and  how  I  may 
find  him.  Sooner  or  later  1  will  do  it  of  myself,  so  surely 
as  Heaven  is  above  us;  but  if  you  will  aid  me,  the  day  of 
reckoning  will  come  all  the  more  speedily.' 

**  She  seemed  greatly  disturbed.  She  still  rocked  herself 
backward  and  forward,  with  knitted,  anxious  brow. 

**  *  1  can  not  decide  now,'  she  said,  at  length.  *  Give  me 
a  little  time  to  think  it  over.  Come  to  me  in  a  fortnight — 
not  sooner.  My  head  is  all  wrong  at  times.  You  must  give 
me  a  fortnight  at  least.  "When  you  come  back  you  will  find 
me  here.     1  will  say  no  more  now.' 

**  We  parted,  t  sought  you  out  at  Golden  Willows,  re- 
turned to  New  York,  and  waited.  The  fortnight  passed.  I 
went  back  to  Mrs.  Reed,  but  she  was  still  undecided.  She 
asked  more  time,  and  I  had  to  be  contented  and  wait.  Then 
followed  your  marriage  and  your  temporary  sojourn  in  New 
York.  The  third  time  1  went  to  Caroline  I  got  what  1 
wanted. 

**  *  1  am  not  sure  that  I  am  doing  right,  but  1  will  tell  you. 
Langley's  name  is  Barstonc,  and  he  has  a  rich  aunt  in  Con- 
necticut^ somewhere.  1  found  it  out  by  the  merest  accident, 
and  it  was  my  mention  of  his  real  name  that  so  enraged  him 
that  dreadful  night.' 

**  Barstone!  And  your  husband's  name  was  Barstone,  and 
he  had  a  rich  aunt  in  Connecticut.  It  startled  me  terribly. 
1  wrote  to  you  at  once.  You  met  me,  and  made  my  terror  a 
certainty.  Maurice  Langley  had  crowned  his  villainy  by 
marrying  you.  He  knew  your  story — knew  you  were  Laura's 
sister — knew  you  were  vowed  to  avenge  her — and  still  dared 
to  marry  you!  What  mercy  does  that  man — no,  that  demon 
in  the  form  of  man — deserve?  When  he  and  you  left  for 
Washington,  1  went  to  Caroline  arid  told  her  of  this  last 
crowning  rascality.  It  aroused  her  as  nothing  1  thought 
could  have  aroused  her. 

**  *  The  vile,  vile  wretch!'  she  cried.  *  Another  lost  and 
ruined  through  his  baseness!  Take  me  to  him;  I  fear  him  no 
more.     Accuse  him  of  murder.     1  will  aid  you.     Send  him 


MAGDALEN^S    VOW. 


107 


where  his  atronioua  wickednoss  cun  blight  no  more  innocent 
lives.  He  doaorvos  no  morcy,  and  wo  will  show  him  none. 
He  is  a  murderer  and  a  bigamist.  As  such,  let  the  law  of  tlio 
lund  deal  with  him.' 

*'  I  have  no  more  to  say.  1  am  hero.  Caroline  only  waits 
my  summons  to  follow.  To-morrow  she  will  come.  Before 
another  sun  sets  the  wretch  you  married  will  pay  the  penalty 
of  his  crimes,  and  Laura  AUward  will  be  avenged  1" 


i 


i 

i 


14 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

PAST  HOPE,  PAST  CARE,  PAST  HELP. 

The  tragic  story  was  finished — the  story  Willie  Allward 
had  come  so  far  to  toil — the  story  Magdalen  Allward  had 
braved  the  double  darkness  of  night  and  storm  to  hear. 

A  thrilling  pause  followed.  Wild  and  high  shrieked  the 
wintery  wind,  and  deep  and  hoarse  the  river  roared  rush- 
ing by. 

The  listener  in  the  door-way  strained  every  nerve,  in  vain, 
to  overhear  above  the  deep  diapason  of  the  tempest.  He 
could  not  catch  a  single  v;ord. 

.'*  You  have  told  me  all?"  the  hollow  voice  of  Magdalen 
said,  out  of  the  darkness.  *'  And  to-morrow  George  Bar- 
stone's  lawful  wife  will  be  here?    Why  to-morrow?" 

*'  Why  should  he  be  spared  beyond  to-morrow?  Why  not 
strike  him  at  once?  Why  not  to-morrow  as  well  as  a  mouth 
hence?" 

"  He  is  absent  from  Milford.  1  do  not  know  that  he  will 
be  back  to-morrow.  But  he  may  be,  and  it  is  well  to  be 
ready.  Send  for  the  wife.  1  want  to  stand  face  to  face  with 
George  Barstone's  wife  before  the  end  of  all  arrives." 

**You?" 

"I!  Before  the  end  of  this  miserable  story  comes,  1  must 
see  the  woman  who  is  what  I  should  be.  Oh,  my  God!  to 
think  that  1  should  sit  here  and  hear  such  horrors  and  live!" 

**  We  can  live  through  more  than  that,"  Willie  Allward 
said,  cynically.  "It  is  only  in  novels  that  hearts  break  and 
people  die  of  troubles.  We  eat  and  sleep,  let  our  misery  be 
ever  so  great,  and  drag  out  existence  until  our  heads  are  gray. 
You  shall  see  Caroline,  if  you  wish  it,  and  hear  her  story 
from  her  own  lips  if  you  like.  Perhaps  to-morrow  would  be 
rather  premature,  even  if  he  does  return.  You  shall  fix  the 
time  if  you  wish." 

There  was  no  answer.  Magdalen  sat,  rigid^  with  white  fac« 
and  dilated  eyes.  .. 


if 


198 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


**  I  can  not  believe  it — 1 
slowly,  in  a  strange,  dull  voice. 


can  not  believe  it!"  she  said, 
**  George  Barstone  a  mur- 
derer? It  can  not  be.  It  is  impossible.  There  is  a  terrible 
mistake  somewhere.  I  tell  you,  Willie  Allward,  there  is  a 
frightful  mistake^  We  are  all  wrong.  George  Barstone  is 
not  the  man  we  take  him  to  be.'* 

She  rose  to  her  feet  with  a  sudden  flash  of  inspiration — a 
swift,  prophetic  conviction  of  the  truth. 

"  It  can  not  be,  I  repeat.  We  are  all  wrong,  Willie.  There 
is  a  dreadful  mistake.  George  Barstone  is  one  of  the  noblest, 
the  gentlest  of  men.  You  paint  a  devil.  We  are  *  far  wide,* 
from  first  to  last.  I  tell  you,  Maurice  Langley  and  George 
Barstone  are  not  one  and  the  same  man." 

Her  voice  rose,  her  eyes  flashed,  the  color  came  back  to  her 
cold  face  as  she  stood  erect  in  the  darkness. 

Her  brother  listened  contemptuously. 

"  There  is  no  mistake,"  he  said,  resolutely.  '*  1  wish  there 
was,  for  your  sake.  Maurice  Langley  and  George  Barstone 
are  the  same  man.  Think  of  the  proofs,  liachel  recognized 
him — 1  recognized  him.  .  There  is  the  unerring  mark  upon 
his  arm— the  secret  in  his  life.  Do  you  ask  any  more  than 
that?" 

She  put  both  hands,  in  a  blind  sort  of  way,  to  her  head- 
dizzy,  benumbed. 

"  You  shall  have  more,"  Willie  said,  answering  his  own 
question;  **  and  I  will  postpone  the  denouement  until  you  are 
Mly  satisfied.     You  expect  Barstone  home  to-morrow?" 

"Yes." 

"  Then,  here,  take  this.  It  is  Caroline  Heed's  picture — a 
living  likeness.  Place  this  where  it  will  meet  his  eyes,  and 
watch  him  well  when  he  first  sees  it.  If  he  shows  no  guilt  or 
surprise,  then  we  will  have  Caroline  down  to  look  at  him  on 
the  quiet.  Will  that  satisfy  you?  If  this  last  cruciating  test 
fails,  why,  then — why,  then,  I  will  own  there  is  a  mistake, 
and  begin  at  the  beginning  again.  And  now  I  think  you  had 
better  start  for  home,  or  you  will  have  them  scouring  the 
town  after  you.  Come,  rouse  up.  Take  my  arm.  I  will  see 
you  safely  through  the  storm  to  the  house. " 

She  obeyed  him  mechanically;- her  hand  closing  hard  over 
the  picture  he  had  given  her.  She  was  so  stunned  by  long 
suffering  that  the  horrors  of  this  night  only  benumbed  her. 
Her  soul  was  full  of  a  dull  despair,  and  she  moved  blindly  for- 
ward, like  a  woman  walking  in  her  sleep. 

The  watcher  on  the  threshold,  who  had  not  caught  one 
word  of  their  conversation,  heard  them  as  they  stumbled  fo^ 


JS 


MAGDALEN'S   VOW. 


199 


I' ■  I 


ward,  and  saw  the  moving  spark  as  the  lantern  advanoed. 
He  drew  closer  into  the  embrasure  of  the  ^ood-work,  and 
Magdalen's  garments  brushed  him  as  she  passed  from  the 
ruined  entrance  of  the  old  mill  out  into  the  stormy  night. 

When  they  reached  the  road,  Willie  extinguished  his  lan- 
tern, and  they  plunged  forward  through  the  wild,  white  drifts. 
The  snow  still  fell,  but  the  wind  had  gone  down.  The  roads 
were  anjjle-deep  already. 

^  **  We  are  likely  to  have  a  pleasant  walk  of  it,"  Willie  mut- 
tered. *'  Cling  to  me,  Magdalen,  or  you  will  fall.  What  will 
they  think  of  you  at  Golden  Willows?" 

'*  What  does  it  matter,"  was  the  weary  answer,  "  since,  in 
a  few  days,  I  will  have  left  them  forever?  Let  them  think 
what  they  please.     They  will  soon  know  all." 

"  1  shall  keep  quiet  until  1  hear  from  y<^u  again,"  her 
brother  said.  *'  That  will  be  immediately  after  he  has  seen 
the  portrait.  In  any  case,  I  shall  then  send  for  Caroline.  If 
he  be  her  husband,  she  will  make  no  mistake,  whatever  we 
do."  - 

They  went  on  in  silence  after  this,  as  much  as  they  could 
do  to  make  headway  at  all  through  the  snow.  Some  yards 
further  on  a  man  went  by  them,  and  gave  them  a  grufE 
**  good-night "  in  passing.  The  man  was  Philip  Barstone, 
who  could  pass  and  speak  with  impunity  in  the  deep  dark- 
ness. His  long  ptrides  measured  off  the  ground  with  double 
the  swiftness  of  those  he  left  behind  in  the  storm.  A  vague 
alarm  filled  him.  What  could  they  mean?  What  did  this 
strange  meeting  portend?    If  he  only  could  have  heard! 

The  lights  from  the  drawing-room  and  dining-room  win- 
dows streamed  far  over  the  snow  as  Golden  Willows  came  in 
view — the  double  lights  of  fire  and  lamp.  The  blinds  were 
up>  the  curtains  drawn.  He  could  see  the  brightly  glowing 
rooms,  the  table  glittering  with  china  and  glass  and  silver, 
and  the  restless  figure  of  Fanny  roaming  about. 

He  opened  the  hall  door,  and  stood  before  that  young  lady, 
a  walking  Arctic  avalanche — snow  from  head  to  feet. 

Miss  Winters  gave  a  little  shriek  at  sight  of  him,  and  held 
up  her  flowing  robes. 

**  Lor%  Phil!  I  thought  you  were  a  burglar.  Where  on 
earth  have  you  been?  And,  oh!  for  gracious'  sake!  where  is 
Magdalen?" 

**  Mrs.  Barstone  will  be  here  in  fifteen  minutes.  Where 
have  I  been*^  Do  you  know  the  old  mill  by  the  river,  near 
the  town?    1  have  been  there." 

'*  And  what  on  earth  took  you  there?    Not  Magdalen?" 


fm 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


**  Magdalen,  most  certainly.  She  mustn't  know  1  followed 
her,  though.  She  wouldn't  like  it,  I  dare  say.  She  went 
there  to  keep  an  appointment." 

**  An  appointment!    Oh,  Phil!    With  a  man?" 

**  With  a  man,  most  decidedly.  He  is  escorting  her  home 
at  this  present  moment.  He  was  waiting  for  her  at  the  old 
mill,  and  he  had  a  lantern  there — all  prepared,  you  see — and 
she  sat  talking  to  him  one  good  hour.  It's  very  mysterious; 
and  if  1  were  George,  1  think  I  should  put  a  stop  to  it.  Mind; 
not  a  hint  that  1  was  a  *  looker-on  in  Venice.'  " 

*' But,  oh,  Phil!"  Fanny  gasped,  "what  can  it  mean? 
And  to  meet  a  man!  And  on  such  a  night!  Oh,  Phil,  it 
must  be  the  same  man  she  met  that  night  and  kissed  in  the 
garden." 

"  What  night?" 

Dr.  Philip  had  removed  his  snow-covered  overcoat,  stamped 
the  snow  oif  his  boots,  and  led  the  way  into  the  dining-room, 
followed  by  Fanny. 

**  1  haven^t  had  a  mouthful  of  dinner  yet,"  the  young  lady 
said,  glancing  at  the  table,  **  except  some  sandwiches  and 
pound-cake  cook  gave  me.  1  know  everything  will  be 
spoiled." 

*'  Tell  me  about  that  night  you  spoke  of.  Fan,  and  the  man 
she  kissed  in  the  garden." 

Fanny  repeated  the  tale  she  had  told  Aunt  Lydia.  When 
she  had  concluded,  the  house  door  opened  for  the  second 
time,  and  Magdalen,  pale  as  death  itself,  and  covered  with 
snow,  stood  before  them. 

*'  My  dear  Mrs.  Barstone,''  the  doctor  said,  starting  up, 
'*  you  are  perished.  Why  in  the  world  did  you  persist  in 
going  out  such  a  night?  Take  off  your  wet  clothes  and  come 
to  the  fire  immediately.     You  may  have  caught  your  death." 

Fanny  gave  him  a  look  of  admiration.     Here  was  clever 
acting.     But  his  cousin's  wife  declined  his  friendly  offer. 
'    "  I  will  go  to  my  room,"  she  said,  turning  away.     *'  There 
is  fire  there.     Good-nigh  c." 

"But,  good  gracious,  Magdalen!  you  must  have  your  din- 
ner. Don't  you  know  it's  nearly  eight  o'clock?  You  must 
be  going  crazy,  I  think,  to  go  out  such  a  dreadful  night. 
Where  on  earth  have  you  been?" 

But  Magdalen  was  already  up  the  stairs,  heedless  of  Fanny's 
cry. 

"  Do  not  wait  for  me,"  she  said.  "  I  want  no  dinner. 
Good-night." 

She  disappeared  with  the  words  into  her  own  room,  and 


'^-'. 


MAGDALEN'S    TOW. 


101 


turned  the  key  in  the  door.  Fanny  might  ofiQciously  intrude 
presently,  and  Fanny's  chatter  to-night  she  felt  would  drive 
her  mad. 

Her  pretty  rooms  looked  prettier  and  brighter  than  ever, 
by  vivid  contrast  with  the  wild,  drifting  tempest  without. 
The  fires  burned  redly,  the  yellow  lamp-light  flooded  the 
chambers,  and  a  low,  soft-cushioned  chair,  a  foot-stool  and 
slippers,  v  "re  in  order  before  the  steel  grate. 

She  dropped  off  her  SLOW-covered  garments  in  a  heap  on 
the  carpet,  and  sunk  down  in  this  chair,  her  hands  folded  in 
her  lap,  her  eyes  staring  with  blank  intensity  into  the  red 
heart  of  the  cinders. 

What  horrors  she  had  listened  to  this  night!  George  not 
her  husband!  George  the  murderer  of  his  own  child — the 
would-be  assassin  of  his  wife! 

Everything  swam  before  her  eyes  in  a  hot  mist.  There  was 
a  dull,  throbbing  pain  in  her  fiead  that  benumbed  her  and 
left  her  no  power  to  think. 

George  a  murderer!  George's  wife  alive!  Those  Two  ideas 
kept  beating,  beating  in  that  hot  brain.  She  had  lost  all 
control  of  her  own  mind.  It  worked  on  and  on  like  a 
machine. 

Hours  passed  while  she  sat  there.  She  never  heeded  their 
flight.  She  still  held  the  miniature  tightly  clinched  in  her 
hand,  unconscious  that  she  held  it. 

Its  dropping  upon  the  floor  drew  her  attention  to  it  at  last. 
She  picked  it  up,  opened  it  mechanically,  and  gazed  long  and 
steadfastly  upon  the  pictured  face. 

It  was  an  old-fa  'lioued  ambrotype  in  a  case,  but  undimmed 
by  time,  and  soft  and  clear  as  an  engraving. 

The  face  within  was  very  .young,  very  pretty — a  bright, 
brunette  face,  with  black  hair  iip[)ling  off  a  low  forehead, 
smiling,  dimpled  lips,  and  large,  luminous  eyes — the  pretty, 
heedless  face  of  a  girl  of  sixteen,  untouched  by  sorrow,  and 
un marred  by  earthly  passion. 

Magdalen  gazed  at  it  long,  then  slowly  closed  and  put  it 
in  her  pocket.  A  groal  sentse  of  weariness  was  stealing  over 
her.  The  fatigue  of  her  long  walk,  the  reaction  of  so  much 
excitement,  were  beginning  to  make  themselves  felt. 

Sitting  there  in  her  chair  before  tho  fire,  her  head  dropped, 
and  her  troubles  ended  in  a  merciful  oblivion.  She  fell 
heavily  asleep. 

She  slept  for  many  hours— deeply,  drtamlessly— and  opened 
her  eyes  to  find  the  fire  long  dead,  the  room  chill,  and  flooded 
witii  pale,  February  sunshine. 


202 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


s 


She  looked  at  her  watch.  It  was  past  ten.  She  had  slept 
nine  hours.  That  long,  death-like  sleep  had  changed  her 
strangely.  The  dull,  throbbing  torture  of  head  and  heart 
was  gone,  and  a  great  calm  had  taken  its  place. 

It  was  the  calm  that  comes  with  supreme  despair,  but  its 
deep  weariness  left  her  power  to  think,  and  blunted  the  edge 
of  her  anguish.  Memory  brought  back,  word  for  word, 
Willie's  terrible  story  of  last  night,  and  she  no  longer  doubted 
its  truth. 

She  was  no  wife — she  was  the  most  ^ost  and  wretched  of 
women — and  George  Barstone  was  the  vilest  of  all  vile 
scoundrels. 

She  took  the  ambrotype  out  of  her  pocket,  half  opened  it, 
shrunk  from  it  as  though  it  had  been  a  viper,  and  replaced  it 
with  a  sick  shudder. 

**  If  I  can  not  bear  to  look  upon  the  pictured  face,  how 
will  I  look  upon  the  living  one?''  she  thought.  **  And  to- 
morrow 1  will  see  her.  To-day  George  will  be  here.  1  will 
show  him  this,  and  then — and  then  the  sooner  the  end  comes, 
and  all  is  over,  the  better!" 

There  was  a  sharp  rap  at  the  door,  and  Fanny's  impatient 
voice  spoke  without: 

**  Magdalen,  Magdalen,  are  you  dead?    Please  say  so  if  you' 
are,  and  Philip  will  break  open  the  door.     If  alive,  unlock  it 
and  let  me  in. " 

Magdalen  arose  at  once  and  turned-  the  key,  and  Fanny 
bounced  impetuously  in. 

**  This  makes  the  fourth  time  I've  come  rapping.  I 
thought  I  would  succeed  at  last.  Why,  goodness  me,  Mag- 
dalen Barstone,  you've  never  been  to  bed  at  all!" 

**No,"  Magdalen  said,  quietly.  *' 1  was .  tired,  and  fell 
asleep  before  1  knew  it,  in  my  chair." 

**  And  you  look  like  a  ghost — worse  than  any  ghost  I  ever 
saw.  And  you've  had  no  dinner,  and  no  tea,  and  no  break- 
fast. I  wonder  what  George  will  say  to  your  ghastly  looks 
when  he  comes  home?  And  he's  coming  home  this  very 
morning." 

**  This  morning?"  > 

**  Yes.  We've  had  a  dispatch;  he  is  coming  in  the  12:30 
train.  So  if  you  have  any  regard  for  his  feelings — and  you 
used  to  have,  goodne83  knows — just  wash  your  face  and  comb 
your  hairr^nd  put  on  one  of  your  pretty  morning-dresses, 
and  come  down  and  have  breakfast,  and  try  not  to  look  quite 
so  much  like  a  galvanized  corpse  when  he  sees  you." 

Magdalen  arose  with  strange  calmness  and  began  to  obey. 


Vj;ia 


\ 


magdalek's  vow. 


203 


um^ 


She  bathed  her  cold  face  and  loosened  her  abundant  golden 
tresses. 

r  Fanny  took  the  seat  she  had  just  vacated,  determined  to 
have  it  out  tliere  and  then. 

*'  Magdalen,  look  here.  What  is  the  matter  with  you  ever 
since  you  came  home?  What  has  George  done  that  you  snub 
him  so  dreadfully?  You  used  to  be  fond  of  him,  1  think, 
though  you  were  never  the  kind  to  show  it  much;  but  J.  could 
see  it  in  your  eyes  when  you  looked  at  him,  and  in  your  smile 
when  you  smiled  on  him,  and  in  your  voice  when  you  spoke 
to  him.  But  it's  all  different  now.  Ji'ow  you  never  look  at 
him  at  all,  you  never  speak  to  him  if  you  can  help  it,  you 
never  smile.  You  look  like  one  of  the  statues  in  the  *  Mar- 
ble Heart.'  It's  romantic,  but  it's  uncomfortable.  Is  there 
a  secret,  Magdalen?  Oh,  do  tell  me — do.  I'll  never  men- 
tion it,  not  even  to  Phil — never,  never  I" 

Yesterday,  and  all  the  days  preceding,  Magdalen  could  not 
have  endured  this.  To-day  she  listened  in  a  dull  sort  of  lassi- 
tude, without  a  trace  of  anger  or  impatience.  She  caught, 
somehow,  at  the  last  word. 

'*  Phil!"  she  repeated.     "  What  has  he  to  do  with  it?'' 

"  Oh,  nothing,  of  course — that  is,  with  you.  Only  he  feels 
uneasy,  like  the  rest  of  us.  But  he  has  a  great  deal  to  do 
with  me.     We're  engaged. " 

"Engaged?" 

"  Yes,  my  dear — to  be  married,"  answered  Fanny,  with  a 
sparkling  face.  **  We've  been  engaged  for  the  past  ten  days; 
but  you've  been  so  dreadfully  melancholy  and  stupid  there 
was  no  telling  you.  We're  engaged,  and,  oh,  Magdalen,  I 
am  so  happy — I  feel  almost  crazy.  1  can't  realize  it  at  times. 
I  idolize  him — 1  love  him  beyond  everything.  And  he's  so 
gentlemanly,  and  so  agreeable,  and  he  knows  so  much,  and 
he's  so  handsome.  IsnH  he  handsome,  Magdalen?  and  don't 
you  adore  pale  young  men  with  dark  eyes  and  hair,  and 
white  teeth,  and  a  black  mustache?  Phil's  isn't  black  just 
now;  but  he  used  to  dye  it,  and  tlie?i  it  was.  I  shall  have 
him  dye  it  again  when  we're  married." 

**  Married!"  Magdalen  again  repeated.  "  Has  it  come  to 
that?    Does  Miss  Barstone  know?" 

She  forgot  her  own  great  sorrow  for  the  moment,  in  her 
affection  for  this  little  girl  whose  round,  rosy  face  glowed  be- 
fore her,  almost  beautified  with  the  delight  of  love's  young 
dream. 

**  Oh,  yes,  she  knows,  of  course,"  Fanny  replied.  **  And 
would  you  believe  it,  Magdalen,  she  didn't  like  it  a  bit 


■ 


I 


304 


Magdalen's  vcw. 


Now,  wasn't  that  heartless?  and  her  own  nephew,  too. 
George  married  you,  and  see  how  pleased  she  was.;  but  then 
George  was  always  her  favorite.  1  don't  see  what  sort  of 
tastes  some  people  have,  for  my  part,  and  I-.e«iii't  help  saying 
it,  if  you  are  his  wife.  George  is  a  very  good  fellow  enough, 
1  dare  say,  for  people  who  like  that  style;  but  it  ain't  my 
style,  and  they're  no  more  to  be  compared  than  the  moon's 
to  be  compared  to  a  moldy  cheese.  We  are  going  to  be  mar- 
ried in  a  month,  and  sail  for  Europe  at  once.  Oh,  Magdalen, 
only  think  of  seeing  Paris,  and  Lonrlon,  and  Venice,  and  the 
Bridge  of  Sighs,  and  prisons  and  palaces,  and  thu  empress, 
and  the  Tower  of  Pisa,  and  gondolas,  and  real  brigands,  and 
things!  Magdalen,  it  is  so  splendid,  1  don't  believe  it  can 
ever  come  true. " 

Miss  Winters  opened  her  eyes  very  wide,  and  her  chubby 
face  grew  all  at  onco  grave  and  solemn,  as  she  made  this  last 
remark. 

**  Oh,  my  dear,"  Magdalen  said,  "  take  care,  take  care! 
Are  you  sure  he  loves  you,  or  is  it  only — '' 

She  paused. 

*' My  sixty  thousand  dollars!"  cried  out  the  heiress,  m- 
dignantly.  "  There  it  is  again.  Everybody  throws  my  sixty 
thousand  dollars  in  my  face.  Of  course  he  loves  me,  and  of 
course  he  couldn't  marry  me  if  1  didn't  have  the  sixty  thou- 
sand dollars.  You  see,  he  is  poor,  and  he  loved  me  so  well. 
He  never  dared  come  here,  because  he  was  afraid  I  would 
find  out  his  love,  and  he  would  not  ask  me  to  marry  him  and 
share  his  humble  lot.  And  he  meant  to  have  lived  single  all 
his  life,  Magdalen — all  his  life — for  my  sake,  and  on  his 
death-bed  he  would  have  to  send  for  me,  and  with  his  dying 
breath  tell  me  all.  I  would  have  been  marriaji  to  somebody 
else,  but  in  s})ite  of  ten  thousand  husbands  he  would  have  had 
me  at  his  dyin^  bed,  and  told  me  then  how  all  his  life  he  had 
worshiped  me.  Oh,  Magdalen,  you  ought  to  hear  him  go  on. 
It^s  twice  as  beautiful  as  any  novel  ever  1  read !" 

A  faint,  cold  shadow  of  a  smile  flitted  over  the  listener's 
face — a  smile  of  utter  scorn — but  Fanny  did  not  see  it.  She 
did  not  speak,  and  the  girl  kept  on: 

"  The  things  I  tried  to  show  you  yesterday  were  the  first  of 
my  wedding-clothes,  and  you  would  not  even  look  at  them. 
I  shouldn't  have  thought  it  of  you,  Magdalen— after  the  in- 
terest I  took  in  your  wedding  things,  too," 

**  I  had  other  matters  to  think  of." 

**  Yes,  I  dare  say.     You've  done  nothing  else  but  think 


MAGDALEN 'S    VOW. 


205 


ever  since  your  bridal-tour.  What  is  it  all  about?  And,  oh, 
Magdalen,  where  were  you  last  night  in  the  storm?" 

**  1  have  toJd  you—out  for  a  walk.  ** 

*'  Oh,  bother!  Out  for  a  walk  such  a  night!  I  don't  be- 
lieve it." 

**  Disbelieve  it,  then.     1  am  going  down  to  breakfast  now." 

Fanny  followed. 

Mrs.  Barstone's  morning  meal  awaited  her,  and  she  eat  it 
in  silence. 

Dr.  Phil  was  smoking  a  cigar  in  the  frosty  sunshine,  and 
his  happy  little  bride-elect  ran  out  and  joined  him.  :• 

She  thrust  her  arm  through  his,  and  walked  and  chattered 
by  his  side,  her  eyes  upraised  to  his  face  with  a  love  that 
strove  for  no  concealment. 

**  Another,"  Magdalen  thought,  '*  another  to  be  made  mis- 
erable. Ke  is  marrying  her  for  her  money,  and  he  will  break 
her  heart  with  his  coldness  andr dislike.  Poor  child!  She  de- 
serves a  better  fate. " 

She  eat  little,  but  she  drank  the  strong  coffee  eagerly.  It 
nerved  her  for  what  was  to  come,  and  for  the  meeting  with 
her  husband,  now  so  near. 

It  was  past  eleven  when  she  arose  and  went  into  the  draw- 
ing-room. The  piano  stood  open,  and  obeying  an  impulse, 
she  sat  down  and  began  to  play. 

She  strove  to  banish  thought — to  forget  for  one  brief  hour, 
at  least.  She  might  never  sit  here  and  touch  those  white 
keys  again. 

It  was  a  new  and  very  fine  piano— one  of  George's  many 
wedding-gifts.  Ah,  how  good  he  had  been  always  to  her, 
and  how  happy  she  had  been  here!  Tears  rose  to  her  eyes 
for  the  first  time;  a  quiet  sadness  filled  her  heart.  She  had 
an  unutterable  horror  of  his  crimes,  but  for  him  she  felt 
nothing  now  but  a  great  compassion. 

She  played  softly  on — mournful  melodies  from  Mozart — 
and  the  lovers  outside  paused  in  their  talk  to  listen  to  the 
weird  sweetness.  She  played  on  until  the  merry  jingle  of 
sleigh-bells  reached  her  ear.  The  bells  approached,  turned  in 
at  the  gate.  She  arose  and  looked  out.  Yes,  George  had 
come. 

Her  heart  gave  one  great  thi'ob  and  thon  «*".ood  still.  An 
instant  later,  and  ho  had  strode  in,  his  face  glowing,  his  eyes 
sparkling. 

'*  My  darling,"  he  said,  "  bore  I  am  back  a  *n,  and  never 
in  my  life  was  1  so  glad  lo  get  home.  I  saw  you  at  the  win- 
dow, and  never  waited  to  aiiswer  Ij'^ny  or  Phil." 


:'l| 


30(5 


magdalek's  vow. 


**  That 
and  get  me 


He  folded  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  after  his  own  im- 
petuouB  fashion.  She  made  no  resistance.  She  stood  white 
and  still. 

**What,  Magdalen!"  he  said,  reproachfully.  *' No  word 
of  welcome?  And  I  have  thought  every  hour  a  month  that 
held  me  from  you.  ** 

*'  1  am  glad  you  have  come  back,  George,"  she  said,  slowly. 
**  I  have  been  wishing  for  your  return,  too." 

's  my  good  little  wife!  Halloo,  Fan!  Come  in  here 
le  something  to  eat.  Tve  had  nothing  since  six  this 
mornmg,  and  the  commissariat  is  always  in  your  way.  I'll 
run  up  and  take  ofiE  these  things.  Have  it  ready  when  I  come 
down." 

He  dashed  upstairs.  Fanny  gave  the  necessary  order,  and 
went  out  and  rejoined  Phil.  One  of  the  house-maids  came 
along  the  hall  in  a  very  few  minutes,  bearing  a  tray  with  a 
delicate  luncheon,  and  laid  it  out  in  the  dining-room.  She 
had  everything  arranged,  and  had  quitted  the  apartment  ere 
Georgo  descended. 

The  instant  she  quitted  the  dining-room  Magdalen  slipped 
in,  laid  the  ambrotype  beside  his  coffee-cup,  and  disappeared 
behind  the  long,  green  window  curtains.  She  would  see 
George  plainly,  but  he  would  not  see  her. 

Mr.  Barstone  made  an  expeditions  toilet,  and  clattered 
down-stairs  whistling  a  jig.  He  was  on  the  heights  of  bliss 
once  more.  Had  not  the  wife  he  worshiped  told  him  she.  was 
glad  he  was  home?  He  looked  in  the  drawing-room;  she  was 
not  there.  He  entered  the  dining-room;  she  was  not  to  be 
seen.     He  called;  there  was  no  reply. 

**  Odd!"  thought  George,  a  trifle  disappointed.  **  Where's 
she  gone  to?    Where's  Mrs.  Barstone^  Susan?" 

This  to  the  girl  who  entered  to  wait  upon  him. 

*'  I'm  sure  1  don't  know,  sir,"  Susan  responded,  pouring 
out  his  coffee  and  adjusting  the  j)lates.     *'  Anything  else?" 

**  That  will  do,  Susan.  Ha!  what's  this?  Something  to 
eat?" 

He  took  up  the  ambrotype  carelessly  enough  and  opened  it. 
The  instant  after  he  rose  to  his  feet  with  a  startled  exclama- 
tion. Magdalen  turned  cold  as  death.  He  stood  holding  the 
case  from  him,  and  gazing  at  it  much  as  if  that  young,  fair 
face  had  been  a  death's-head.  A  second  or  two"  he  stood; 
then  he  closed  it  sharply  and  strode  at  once  out  of  the  room. 

Magdalen  leaned  heavily  against  the  window,  sick  andiaint 
unto  death.  There  was  no  mistake  then— he  recognized, 
beyond  all  doubt,  the  picture  of  Caroline  Reed,     She  glided 


MAGDALEN  8    VOW. 


^7 


out  from  her  hiding-place  and  encountered  Fanny  entering 
the  hall. 

**  What  is  the  matter  with  your  husband,  Mrs.  Barstone?*' 
the  heiress  demanded,  with  some  asperity.  "What  is  he  iu 
such  a  flurry  about?  and  vnat  does  he  want  of  Phil?  Order- 
ing me  into  the  house  after  such  an  imperative  fashion.  1 
should  not  have  slirred  a  step,  only  Phil  seconded  it.  What's 
the  matter?" 

Magdalen  made  no  reply.  She  went  straight  to  her  own 
room,  and  without  an  instant's  delay  sat  down  and  wrote  to 
Willie: 

**  He  has  returned — seen  the  picture  and  recognized  it. 
There  is  no  longer  room  to  doubt.  Send  for  0.  R.  as  soon  as 
you  like  now,  and  let  the  end  come  as  speedily  as  you  please. 

**  Magdalen." 

She  sealed  this  note,  dressed  for  a  walk,  glided  down-stairs 
and  out  of  the  house.  No  one  saw  her.  Her  husband  and 
his  cousin  were  in  the  Willow  Walk,  and  Fanny  was  flatten- 
ing her  little  pug  nose  against  a  side  window,  watching  them. 

What  they  would  think  of  this  sudden  flight  the  first  mo- 
ment of  George's  arrival,  she  never  paused  to  consider. 
What  did  appearances  matter  now?  .  (,-. 

And  in  the  Willow  Walk  the  two  men  stood  talking,  with 
strangely  startled  faces.  It  was  Dr.  Phil  who  held  the  am- 
brotype  now,  and  that  dull,  grayish  pallor  had  blanched  his 
face  from  brow  to  chin. 

**  Found  it,  George,  on  the  dining-room  table!"  he  was 
repeating,  in  a  sort  of  whisper.  **  Her  picture!  How  in 
God's  name  could  her  picture  have  got  into  this  house?" 

*'  Don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  responded  George,  who  looked 
by  no  means  so  horrified  as  his  cousin.     **  Let  s  ask." 

"  Ask!"  Philip  Barstone  repeated,  looking  at  him  in  a  sort 
of  horror.  "  Are  you  mad?  I  mean,"  hastily,  '*  would  you 
set  inquiries  on  foot,  and  let  Fanny  know  the  truth?  No, 
no,  no!     Besides,  I  fancy  1  see  through  the  mystery." 

*'  You  do?  Well,  hang  me  if  1  can!  Who  the  deuce  was 
likely  to  fetch  Caroline's  picture  here?" 

**  Hush-h-h!"  The  doctor's  face  turned  quite  livid  at  the 
sound  of  the  name.  "  1  will  tell  you  later.  Give  me  time 
to  think.     Where's  your  wife?" 

*'  My  wife!     What's  my  wife  to  do  with  it?" 

*'  A  great  deal.  It's  my  belief  she  has  placed  it  there.  If 
she  isn't  in  the  house,  she  has  gone  to  Miliord  again  i%  meet 
that  man." 


n 


:t 


I  3 


/ 


^08 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


/ 


**  What  man?''     " 

"Johnstone.  George,  old  boy,  Tvo  a  long  and  very  dis- 
agreeable story  to  tull  you.  Fanny  knows —Aunt  Lydia 
knows.  Give  mo  a  moment  here  alone,  and  I  will  join  you 
in  the  house  and  tell  you  all.*' 

Tie  walked  away.  George  returned  slowly  to  the  house. 
The  moment  he  was  out  of  sight,  Philip  Barstone,  v/ho  had 
walked  to  the  bank,  hurled  the  ambrotypo  with  all  his  force 
lar  into  the  frozen  lake  below.  He  saw  it  shivered  there  in  a 
dozan  pieces. 

*'She  knows  all,"  he  thought,  "and  she  still  believes  it, 
George.  Good  heavens!  if  the  truth  comes  out,  after  all 
those  years,  and  by  means  of  Laura  All  ward's  sister!" 


,t 


'F 


. 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 
**  I'll  not  believe  but  desdemona's  honest." 

George  Barstone  strode  up  and  down  the  drawing-room 
with  a  very  pale  and  startled  face,  listening  to  the  story  his 
cousin  had  to  tell.  He  heard,  in  blank  dismay,  of  that  long 
walk  through  night  and  storm,  to  the  old  mill  by  the  river, 
and  of  the  suspicious  interview  held  there. 

*'  The  i^^n  was  the  same  1  saw  her  with  in  New  York," 
Philip  said.  **  1  had  a  glimj^se  of  him  by  the  light  of  the 
lantern.  It  was  Johnstone,  of  course,  and  the  letter  she 
received,  the  night  you  left,  must  have  been  to  appoint  the 
meeting.  It  is  my  belief  she  has  gone  into  Milford  now  to 
meet  him  again." 

For  Magdalen  was  not  to  be  found,  and  one  of  the  servants 
informed  them  she  had  seen  Mrs.  Barstone  quit  the  house, 
attired  for  a  walk,  over  fifteen  minutes  before. 

*'You  say  you  were  at  the  door  during  the  interview?" 
George  said,  at  length.     **  Tell  me  what  you  saw  and  heard?" 

'*  I  heard  nothing — the  plaice  was  pitchy  dark,  and  the 
uproar  of  the  storm  was  deafening.  The  interview  lasted 
over  an  hour,  and  he  accompanied  her  back  to  the  house.  1 
passed  them  on  the  road,  unknown,  under  cover  of  the  storm 
and  darkness.  George,  it  is  no  common  motive  that  would 
take  any  woman  three  miles  from  home  on  such  a  night,  and 
to  keep  such  an  appointment." 

**  What  do  you  suspect?"  George  asked,  very  coldly. 

"  I  should  suspect,  as  Fanny  does,  that  it  was  some  old 
sweetheart,  by  Jove!  We  don't  need  all  this  mystery  and 
secrecy  to  meet  our  poor  relations." 


Magdalen's  tow. 


209 


_  V 

**  Fanny!    What  dooa  Fanny  know  of  this  mutter?" 

**  Oh,  by  the  bye,  J  hud  forgotten,*'  the  doctor  exclaimed. 
**  She  never  told  you  of  what  she  saw  one  night — some  two 
months  ago— before  you  were  married?"  ?- 

**No.     What  did  aho  sue?"  ^ 

**  It  was  during  Aunt  Lydia's  illness.  You  were  dining 
alone;  she  was  up  in  her  own  room,  and  Miss  Wayne,  who  had 
been  watching  in  the  sick-room,  went  out  into  the  garden  for 
a  walii.  It  was  a  clear  moonlight  night,  and  Fanny's  window 
overlooks  the  Willow  Walk.  In  the  VVillow  Walk  she  saw 
Magdalen  meet  a  man — a  little  man — with  a  cap,  she 
describes  him — and  Miss  Wayne  flew  into  his  arms  and  kissed 
him  again  and  again.  They  had  a  long  interview,  and  when 
Miss  Wayne  returned  to  the  house  she  was  as  white  as  a  sheet. 
She  went  straight  to  her  room,  and  never  spoke  of  the  meet- 
ing after.  Fanny  felt  delicate  about  alluding  to  it;  she  took 
it  for  granted  that  Magdalen  had  told  you,  and  that  it  must 
be  all  right." 

"  Magdalen  did  not  tell  me;  nevertheless,  it  must  be  all 
right.  It  was  her  cousin,  most  assuredly,  and  it  was  her 
cousin  again  whom  she  met  last  night.  As  to  your  other 
supposition,  or  Fanny's,  it  is  nothing,  from  Fanny's  novel- 
reading  brain — from  you,  Phil,  if  repeated,  I  shall  consider  it 
an  insult.  My  wife  is  pure  as  Heaven.  This  is  all  very 
strange,  very  mysterious;  but  with  her,  at  least,  there  is  no 
guilt.  The  man  she  meets  is  her  near  relative,  and  never  has 
been,  and  never  will  be,  her  lover." 

He  spoke  bravely,  but  his  cheek  was  ashen  white  and  his 
heart  seemed  torn  within  him. 

Dr.  Philip  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

**  Not  a  doubt  of  it,  George.  Cassar'a  wife  is  above  re- 
proach.    Still,  if  this  matter  gets  wind — " 

"  The  matter  is  hardly  likely  to  get  wind;  but,  considering 
all  things,  you  might  have  been  a  trifle  more  discreet,  Doctor 
Barstone.  There  was  no  need,  that  1  can  see,  of  taking 
Fanny  into  your  confidence." 

*'  Fanny  knew  that  she  had  left  the  house,  and  that  I  fol- 
lowed her.  I  do  not  see  that  I  am  called  upon  to  invent  lies 
to  cover  your  wife's  very  remarkable  conduct.  When  Fanny 
asked  me  where  she  had  been,  I  told  her  the  truth,  and  that 
led  to  her  telling  me  what  slie  saw.  1  congratulate  you,  my 
dear  fellow,  upon  your  freedom  from  the  green-eyed  mon- 
ster's power;  but,  egad!  if  she  were  my  wife,  I  would  keep  a 
sharp  eye  upon  her. " 

**  Thank  you  for  your  advice,  Phil.    If  I  remember  rightly^ 


ir 


'IT 


i 


210 


MAaOALEN'S    VOW. 


..,J 


I 


when  you  had  a  wife,  you  very  seriously  neglected  keeping  an 
eye  upon  her  at  all,  sharp  or  otherwise.  And  that  brings  us 
back  to  the  pic'liure.  I  shall  speak  to  Mrs.  Barstone  upon 
that  subject  tlie  moment  she  appears.** 

The  young  doctor's  sallow  face  blackened.  He  arose  from 
bis  seat. 

*'  You  mean  you  will  tell  her  all?" 

**  By  no  moans.  1  will  tell  her  nothing  of  you.  And,  for 
the  future,  1  will  relieve  you  of  the  duty  of  watching  my 
wife.  You  do  not  like  her,  and  she  heartily  dislikes  you.  Be 
kind  enough  to  interfere  in  no  way  with  her  from  this  day 
forth.*' 

Dr.  Philip  turned  to  quit  the  room. 

**  1  was  a  fool,**  ho  said,  **  and  I  have  received  a  fool's  re- 
ward. Rest  easy,  my  good  cousin.  Mrs.  Barstone  may  go 
un watched  to  her  nocturnal  meetings  to  the  end  of  the  chap- 
ter for  me.*' 

He  stalked  out  of  the  room.  It  was  the  first  serious 
quarrel  the  cousins  had  ever  hud,  and  tiiat  thougjht  did  not 
tend  to  soothe  George's  irritation.  How  entirely  he  had 
trusted  this  woman,  and  how  bitterly  he  had  been  deceived  I 

**  I  could  have  staked  my  very  soul  upon  her  fidelity  and 
truth,"  bethought,  with  a  groan;  *'  and  now!" 

Meantime,  Magdalen  had  reached  Milford.  But  a  walk  to 
the  post-office  was  rendered  unnecessary,  for  at  the  entrance 
of  the  town,  pacing  slowly  along  one  of  the  most  unfre- 
quented streets,  she  came  face  to  face  with  Willie.  She 
clutched  his  arm,  and  looked  at  him  with  gleaming  eyes. 

**  Well,"  he  said,  **  the  man's  come  back?" 

**  He  came  not  an  hour  ago,  and  he  has  seen  the  picture 
and  recognized  it  at  once.  1  saw  amaze  and  horror  in  his 
face,  1  toll  you.  There  can  no  longer  be  the  shadow  of  a 
doubt.     Send  for  Caroline  Reed  as  soon  as  you  please." 

**  But  what  did  he  say?"  Willie  demanded. 

**  Nothing  to  me.  I  was  hidden  from  view  when  he  looked 
at  tl  ■»  picture,  and  he  rose  up  and  left  the  house.  1  ran  up 
to  my  room,  wrote  a  note  to  you,  and  was  on  my  way  to  post 
it  now.  He  is  the  man,  Willie.  Let  his  wife  come  when  she 
likes." 

*'  1  will  telegraph  to-day — she  will  be  here  by  this  time  to- 
morrow. If  you  want  to  see  her,  you  can  come  to-morrow 
afternoon  to  Freeman's  boarding-house,  and  ask  for  Mrs. 
Reed." 

**  And  then?" 

**  And  then  I  will  take  hex  bef oi*e  a  magistrate^  and  idi« 


aiagdalen's  vow. 


311 


will  make  her  deposition;  and  then  wo  will  go  to  the  house 
and  confront  the  murderer  of  his  child.     I  will  huve  him 
placed  under  arrest  at  once.     As  for  you,  my  poor  Magdalen, 
what  do  you  moan  to  do  when  all  is  over?** 
Magdalen  smiled — a  smile  that  strangely  startled  her  brother. 

**  Never  mind  me/*  she  said.  '*  1  know  what  will  become 
of  me.*' 

**  What  do  you  moan?  "Why  do  you  look  so  queerly? 
Magdalen — " 

**  Let  us  say  no  more  about  it — *  unto  the  day,  the  day.' 
I  must  return  to  Golden  Willows.  To-morrow  afternoon  1 
will  call  at  Freeman*s  and  see  Mrs.  Reed.  Until  then,  good- 
bye.** 

She  left  him  and  walked  rapidly  homeward.  As  she  passed 
Willow  Lake  she  paused  and  looked  down,  and  the  smile  that 
had  startled  Willie  returned  to  her  pale  face. 

**  Yes,'*  she  said,  under  her  breath,  **  I  know  what  will 
become  of  me.** 

The  afternoon  sunshine  was  flinging  long,  red  lines  over  the 
snow  before  she  reached  the  house.  George  met  her  as  she 
entered  the  door. 

**  My  dear,**  he  said,  very  quietly,  **  where  hqve  you  been?" 

**ToMilford.*' 

She  passed  him  swiftly  as  she  spoke,  and  hurried  upstairs. 
He  followed  her  and  closed  the  door. 

**  M&gdalen,**  he  said,  '*  1  have  a  few  words  to  say  to  you, 
and  as  business  compels  me  to  go  to  the  office,  1  will  say  them 
at  once.     You  were  out  last  night  in  the  storm?" 

*•!  was.*' 

*'  You  went  to  the  old  mill  by  the  river?" 

*'  I  did.     I  was  watched,  then,  it  seems." 

"  You  were  watched  and  followed.  You  went  to  meet  a 
man  there,  and  remained  with  him  an  hour.  Magdalen,  who 
'was  that  man?" 

**  I  have  told  you  before — a  relative." 

**  The  same  you  met  in  New  York?' 

**  The  same." 

**  But,  great  Heaven!  Magdalen,  what  does  all  this  secrecy 
and  mystery  mean?  Why  did  you  brave  the  night  and  the 
tempest  to  meet  any  relative  in  such  a  place?** 

**  That  is  my  secret." 

**  There  is  a  secret,  then?*' 

**  There  is." 

•*  Which  you  will  not  tell  me?' 


I 


'Mi 


I'l 

■I 

■A 
J 

k 


ri- ! 


n 


)» 


212 


Magdalen's  vow. 


"  Which  I  will  not  tell  you  to-night.  But  rest  easj— you 
will  know  it  before  the  week  ends.'* 

**  I  will?"  He  took  a  step  eagerly  toward  her.  **  You 
promise  me  this,  Magdalen?  I  will  know  it  all  before  the 
Week  ends?'* 

**A11.     Ipromise.'^  ' 

**  1  knew  iti"  George  cried;  "1  told  him  so.  But  you 
Bhould  not  have  been  so  imprudent,  my  own  dear  girl — you 
tnight  have  caught  your  death.  And  now  there  is  but  one 
thing  more — about  that  picture?" 

"What  picture?"  She  turned  upon  him  with  eager  eyes. 
•*  What  picture?" 

**  The  ambrotype  left  on  the  dining-room  table/'  he  an- 
swered, quietly.     *'  Left  there  by  you,  was  it  not,  Magdalen?" 

*' Yes— I  left  it  there." 

**  And  why?    How  came  you  to  possess  that  picture?" 

'*  That  is  another  secret.  1  need  not  ask  if  you  recognized 
it." 

**  1  recognized  it,  certainly — poor,  unhappy  creature!  Mag- 
dalen, do  tell  me  what  you  know  of  her  story,  and  how  you 
came  by  the  portrait?" 

She  looked  at  him  in  wonder.  His  face  puzzled  her;  it  was 
grave  and  full  of  concern;  but  that  look  was  hardly  a  look  of 
guilt.  Was  he  so  hardened — so  utterly  dead  to  fear  and  re- 
morse as  all  this? 

**  I  can  not  tell  you  now,"  she  said,  slowly;  "  but  I  repeat, 
you  will  know  all  ere  the  week  ends.  1  placed  the  picture 
there  to  see  whether  or  not  you  would  recognize  it,  and  I  saw 
vou  did.  How  I  came  by  it,  and  what  I  know,  you  will  learn 
later." 

She  turned  resolutely  to  leave  him,  but  he  spoke  again: 

**  One  last  question,  Magdalen~you  went  to  Milford  just 
now  to  meet  that  man,  Johnstone,  again?" 

**  I  did.  I  suppose  Doctor  Barstoue,  who  followed  me  last 
night,  will  be  anxious  to  know.  You  can  set  his  mind  at  rest 
as  you  go  down." 

She  passed  into  one  of  the  inner  rooms  and  turned  the  key 
in  the  door.  And  George  turned  heavily  aucl  sloivly  to  quit 
the  house,  with  a  heart  that  lay  like  lead  in  his"  bosom. 
Wonder  and  doubt  filled  him.  What  strange  mystery  was 
thu  that  had  come  to  darken  their  humdrum  country  home? 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


«13 


■.-/■ 


"s. 


r 


;-  CHAPTER  XXVII. 

A  T    T  H  E    L  A  S  T    M  0  M  E  N  T . 

The  12:30  train  from  New  York,  on  the  following  day, 
brought  a  lodger  to  Freeman's  boarding-house — a  pale  little 
woman  in  black — who  gave  her  name  as  Mrs.  Reed.  It  was 
'  the  stranger,  Johnstone,  who  had  been  staying  there  for  some 
days  past,  who  presented  her  to  the  landlady  as  his  sister,  and 
requested  that  a  cup  of  tea  might  be  served  at  once,  in  her 
room. 

When  the  tea  and  toast  came,  he  left  Mrs.  Reed  to  partake 
of  these  refreshments  by  herself,  and  lounged  in  an  aimless 
gort  of  way,  up  and  down  the  dreary  little  ba(!k  street.  The 
uproar  and  smoke  of  the  neighboring  factories  filled  it,  but 
few  people  passed,  and  those  few  took  no  notice  of  the  shabby 
young  man  in  the  slouch  hat,  who  paced  restlessly  up  and 
down,  evidently  waiting  impatiently, 

.  The  town  clock  tolled  the  afternoon  hours  sonorously,  and 
with  each  the  shabby  young  man  grew  more  and  more  im- 
patient. Four  struck — five;  it  was  rapidly  growing  dusk,  and 
the  sun  was  setting  redly  far  off  behind  the  hills  when  she 
for  whom  he  waited  came  lightly  and  swiftly  into  the  dismal 
little  street. 

She  was  closely  veiled,  but  there  was  no  mistaking  that  tall, 
slim,  supple  figure — that  rapid,  graceful  walk. 

*'At  last!*'  Willie  Allward  said,  discontentedly.  **  Fve 
been  waiting  about  here  for  the  last  four  hours,  and  was  just 
going  to  give  you  up." 

*'  1  could  get  away  no  sooner,"  his  sister  answered,  breath- 
less from  her  long  walk.  *'  I  waited  until  Doctor  Barstone, 
my  husband's  brother,  took  Miss  Winters  out  for  a  drive. 
He  has  played  the  spy  on  me  more  than  once.  1  did  not  want 
^im  to  follow  me  here.     Has  she  come?" 

**  Yes — by  the  noon  train.  I  say,  Magdalen,  she's  a  scary 
sort  of  thing — never  quite  got  over  the  horror  of  that  night  in 
Brooklyn— so  be  gentle  with  her.  Don't  go  off  into  tan- 
trums, and  frighten  her  out  of  the  few  senses  she  has  left." 

**  You  need  not  be  ularniL-d.  My  tantrums,  as  you  call 
them,  are  at  an  end.  I  will  not  frighten  her,  and  1  will  stay 
but  a  few  minutes.     I  have  no  anger  against  her." 

But  her  teeth  set  as  phe  Haid  it.  No  anger  against  the 
woman  who  was  George  Bin  stone's  lawful  wife! 

She  followed  Willie  into  the  house,  and  upstairs  to  a  door  in 


i 

II 

in 


i 


:.1 


iri 


111! 


iiill 


111! 


.4 


2U 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


\\ 


the  landing,  at  which  he  knocked.  It  was  opened  instantly, 
and  the  two  women  who  had  such  good  reason  to  hate  Georg« 
Barstone  were  face  to  face. 

Magdalen  stood  and  regarded  her  with  the  merciless  scrutiny 
one  woman  bestows  upon  another  who  is  her  rival. 

Mrs.  Reed  drooped  before  her;  her  eyes  fell,  and  she  drew 
instinctively  a  step  nearer  Willie,  as  if  for  protection  from 
this  tall,  fair-haired,  handsome  woman,  who  looked  at  her  sc 
sternly  out  of  those  dark,  beautiful  eyes. 

She*  was  a  little  creature,  very  wan,  and  faded,  and  thin, 
with  hollow  eyes  and  sunken  cheeks,  and  a  sharp,  hacking 
cough.  Yet  she  had  been  pretty,  when  those  melancholy 
black  eyes  had  shone  with  the  happy  sparkle  of  youth;  when 
those  ashen  cheeks  had  bloomed  rosily  with  health,  and  those 
thin,  dark  locks  had  fallen  in  abundant  black  ringlets  down 
to  her  girlish  waist. 

The  small,  wan  face  looked  very  appealing  and  piteous  now. 
It  touched  even  Magdalen. 

**  Don't  be  afraid,*'  she  said,  gently  answering  that  implor- 
ing look.  *'  I  don't  blame  you;  1  pity  you  with  all  my  heart. 
Will  you  sit  down?    1  can  remain  but  a  very  few  minutes." 

There  was  a  queenliness  always  about  Mrs.  Barstone  that 
made  people  obey  her  unconsciously. 

Little  Mrs.  Reed  collapsed  into  a  sofa,  in  a  startled,  nervous 
terror,  looking  helplessly  anywhere  but  into  that  stonily  pale 
face. 

**  My  brother  has  told  me  your  story;  but,  somehow,  I 
would  like  to  hear  it  from  your  own  lips.  You  will  tell  it  me, 
will  you  not?  How  you  first  met  and  married  Maurice 
Langley — all?" 

*'  It  seems  so  long  ago — so  long  ago!"  Caroline  Reed  mur- 
mured, rocking  to  and  fro  In  her  seat,  her  hands  clasped  to- 
gether; **  a  score  of  years,  instead  of  eight.  It  is  a  very  com- 
mon story — we  read  of  such  things  in  the  papers  every  week. 
I  was  a  simple  village  girl,  knowing  no  more  of  the  great 
world  outside  our  hamlet  than  a  baby,  and  he  was  the  hand- 
somest; almost  the  only  gentleman  I  had  ever  seen.  He  had 
come  to  our  village  to  fish,  two  other  gentlemen  with  him, 
and  he  fell  in  love  with  my  pretty  face.  I  7vas  pretty  then, 
although  never  half  as  beautiful  as  you.  Ah!  how  could  he 
do  it?  how  could  he  do  it?" 

"He  is  capable  of  doing  more  than  that,  Mrs.  Reed.  Go 
on!  He  married  you  there,  1  suppose,  under  his  assumed 
name?" 

He  did.     1  have  our  marriajge  certificate  here,"  tapping 


«( 


N 


maodalen's  vow. 


215 


aer  breast;  **  and  ihe  minister  who  married  us  Is  still  alive. 
He  brought  me  to  New  York,  and,  for  nearly  a  year,  loved 
me  and  was  good  to  me,  and  gave  me  a  lady's  life.  But  when 
my  baby  was  born  it  all  ended.  He  hated  children — he  never 
could  endure  to  look  at  it.  Then,  gradually^  he  ceased  to 
visit  me.  I  left  the  comfortable  lodgings  in  which  I  had 
spent  that  one  happy  year,  and  took  a  poor  little  room  and 
went  out  to  work.  Once  in  a  rare  interval  he  visited  me  still, 
and  I  forgave  him  and  loved  him,  and  thanked  Heaven  when 
I  saw  him.  1  loved  him  so  dearly  that  neither  desertion,  nor 
abuse,  nor  blows  could  quite  kill  me.  It  was  only  when  I 
heard  from  his  confederate.  Burns,  who  had  been  a  grooms- 
man at  our  wedding,  that  he  had  another  wife  in 
New  York,  that  all  the  love  died  out,  and  anger  and 
hatred  took  its  place.  I  wrote  that  unfortunate  young  lady  a 
letter.  You  know  what  followed  for  he'*  and  me  and  my 
child.  It  has  made  me  what  you  see — an  old,  broken-down 
Woman  at  twenty-six,  who  looks  forward  with  hope  t6  nothing 
but  a  speedy  death/' 

She  swayed  herself  to  and  fro  in  the  same  dreary  way,  her 
large  black  eyes  tearless  and  blank. 

Magdalen's  womanly  heart  went  out  to  her  in  a  great  com- 
passion— poor  little  f  lail  waif,  tossed  about  on  the  bitter  sea 
of  life! 

And  the  pity  that  softened  her  heart  for  the  betrayed  wife 
hardened  it  to  stone  for  the  man  who  had  done  this  dastardly  . 
deed. 

"The  villain!"  Magdalen  said;  **  the  coward!  Oh, 
mighty  God!  where  sleep  Thy  Ihunder-bolts,  when  such  base, 
base  wretches  live  and  prosper?  Let  vengeance  fall  upon 
him,  heavy  and  bitter.  I  will  never  lift  a  finger  to  save  him. 
You  ara-^ure  you  will  know  him  again,  Mrs.  Reed,  after  all 
those  years?" 

*'  Sure!"  she  said,  lifting  her  melancholy  eyes.  **  Can  a 
wife  forget  her  husband?  But,  before  I  stand  face  to  face, 
with  him  as  his  accuser,  1  should  like  to  look  at  him  once 
more,  all  unseen.     It  will  make  certainty  doubly  sure." 

*'  It  can  be  done,"  Magdalen  answered;  **  very  easily,  as  it 
happens.  You  have  heard  me  speak  of  Miss  Winters,  Willie? 
Yesterday,  after  I  wont  home,  she  met  me,  in  a  great  state  of 
delight,  and  announced  that  a  surprise-party  was  to  be  held 
to-night,  at  the  house  of  a  friend,  here  in  Milford — Miss  Ella 
Goldham's.  George  Barstone,  his  cousin,  Miss  Winters  and 
myself  are  to  be  of  the  party.     If  you  know  where  the  hooso 


I II 


!■   - 


21G 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


is,  Willie,  you  can  fetch  Mrs.  Reed  there  and  see  us  as  we 
enter.  *' 

**  I  know  the  house,*'  Willie  answered;  **  a  large  brick 
house,  on  the  bank  of  the  river,  with  a  long  garden  and  lots 
of  trees  in  front.    The  garden  runs  down  to  the  water's  edge." 

'*  Exactly.  The  entrance-hall  will  be  lighted,  of  course, 
dud  there  is  nothing  to  hinder  you  and  Mrs.  Reed  from  con- 
cealing yourselves  hehind  the  trees,  and  seeing  all  who  go  in. 
It  will  probably  be  half  past  nine  when  we  arrive,  and  there 
is  a  full  moon." 

**  We  will  be  there,"  said  Willie,  **  and  the  grand  exposure 
shall  come  to-night.  When  the  merry-making  is  at  its  height 
— which  will  be,  I  suppose,  a  "COuple  of  hours  after  your  ar- 
rival— I  will  enter  with  Caroline,  accuse  him  of  bigamy  and 
murder — 1  will  denounce  him  before  his  assembled  friends— 
and  our  dead  sister  will  be  avenged!" 

There  was  a  pause.  The  twilight  filled  the  room  now,  and 
through  the  dusk  the  faces  of  the  two  women  gleamed  like 
marble.  ^ 

"  To-night  he  shall  bo  exposed — to-morrow  he  shall  be 
arrested.  And  then,  Magdalen,  what  becomes  of  you?  You 
can  come  here  and  stay  with  Caroline,  you  know.'* 

His  sister  rose  up. 

**  Don't  trouble  yourself  about  me,  Willie.  I  will  find  a 
refuge.     I  leave  you  now.     Good-bye  until  we  meet  again." 

There  was  a  solemnity  in  her  tone,  a  look  in  her  rigid  face, 
that  startled  him  strangely.  She  held  out  her  hand — first  to 
him,  then,  after  a  little  hesitation,  to  Caroline.  , 

**  Farewell!"  she  said.  "  On  the  road  we  are  treading  there 
is  no  turning  back.  To-night  1  will  have  kept  my  vow,  and 
Laura  will  be  avenged." 

She  flitted  out  of  the  room  as  she  spoke.  Her  brother  fol- 
lowed her  uneasily. 

**^ Magdalen,"  he  said,  "  let  me  accompany  you  home."      i 

But  she  only  waved  her  hand  in  farewell  and  denial,  and' 
was  out  of  sight  in  a  moment. 

Magdalen  left  the  forlorn  little  back  street,  and  made  her 
way  to  the  center  of  the  town,  where  the  stores  were  already 
ablaze  with  gas-light. 

Before  one  of  these  stores  a  sleigh  stood,  and  Dr.  Philip 
Barstone  was  in  the  act  of  helping  Miss  Winters  into  the  seat. 

*' Can  you  make  room  for  uie,  Doctor  Philip?"  a  voice  at 
his  elbow  said.  **  I  walked  in,  and  I  don't  feel  disposed  to 
walk  back." 

**  Why,  Magdalen!''  cried  Fanny,  in  wonder,  "  yoi^  liere? 


-  .1  "■*■ 


m 


/- 


MAQDALEii  S    VOW. 


ai7 


What  brought  you  in,  pray?  and  why  don*t  you  wait  for 
George?    Peter  is  coming  for  him  the  moment  we  geli  back." 

*'  Then  you  can  not  accommodate  me  in  the  sleigh?*' 

"Most  certainly  we  can,"  Dr.  Philip  answered;  **  and  I 
will  sit  bodkin  between  you.  And  so  you  walked  in?  What 
famous  pedestrians  you  country  ladies  are!  But  you  should 
have  come  with  us,  and  not  used  yourself  up,  with  four  hours' 
hard  daocing  in  store  for  you." 

"  What  did  you  come  for?"  demanded  blunt  Fanny. 
**  Shopping?  You  haven't  got  any  parcels.  Perhaps  you 
were  at  the  office  to  see  George?'' 

*'  No,  I  was  not  at  the  office,  nor  was  1  shopping.  You 
were,  though,  I  am  certain." 

'*  That  she  was,"  exclaimed  the  doctor,  *'  as  I  know  to  my 
cost.  She  has  been  in  every  dry-goods  and  milliner's  store 
in  the  town,  and  purchased  a  few  dollars'  worth  in  each. 
What  you  ladies  contrive  to  do  with  all  the  yards  of  silk  and 
lace  and  ribbons  you  buy  is  a  perpetual  mystery  to  me." 

*'  Wear  'em,  of  course,  and  look  pretty,"  Fanny  said.  "  I 
have  got  the  loveliest  wreath  for  to-night,  Magdalen — ivy, 
you  know,  and  crystallized  grasses — and  the  most  beautiful 
black  beetle  you  ever  saw  perched  on  the  center  cluster.  You 
will  wear  white  to-night,  being  a  bride  still — though,  of  course, 
we  can't  dress  much,  seeing  it's  only  a  surprise-party." 

*'  That  will  be  no  restraint  upon  you,  my  dear,"  the  doctor 
said.  *'  You  will  array  yourself  more  magnificently  than 
Solomon  in  all  his  glory.  Look  at  the  moonlight  on  Willow 
Lake  yonder,  Mrs.  Barstone,  with  the  black  shadows  of  the 
trees  thrown  across." 

**  Moonlight  on  the  lake,"  murmured  Fanny;  "it  always 
reminds  me  of  the  lovely  new  shade  in  dress  goods.  1  svish 
we  didn't  have  to  wait  dinner  for  George;  shopping  always 
makes  me  so  dreadfully  hungry." 

They  reached  the  house.  Magdalen  had  spoken  scarcely  a 
word  at  all  during  the  homeward  ride,  and  a  look  of  deep- 
settled  sadness  lay  upon  her  face.  *'  If  any  calm,  a  calm 
despair."  Such  a  calm  had  fallen  upon  her  tortured  heart. 
The  end  had  come;  her  resolution  was  taken — a  wicked  and 
desperate  resolution,  to  which  that  blind  despair  had  driven 
her. 

This  night,  that  brought  exposure  and  disgrace  to  George 
Barstone,  would  be  her  last  upon  earth.  Better  death,  she 
thought,  speedy  and  painleES,  than  live  to  go  mad  with  miserv. 
She  was  mad  already,  though  she  did  not  know  it.  She  could 
not  see  how  terrible  was  the  crime  she  meditated — far  deeper 


if 


T 


^ 


«18 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


and  more  deadly  than  even  her  wild  and  sinful  vow.  There 
seemed  no  alternative  left;  she  accepted  hbr  doom  with  the 
quiet  calm  of  despair. 

She  went  up  to  her  room  and  began,  with  strange,  un- 
natural composure,  to  dress.  She  brushed  out  the  burnished 
masses  of  hair,  and  twisted  roses  through  the  glittering  braids 
and  bands.  She  chose  a  dress  of  white  tissue,  that  floated 
about  her  like  a  misty  cloud — soft,  rich  lace,  draping  the  ex- 
quisite bosom  and  polished  bare  arms. 

Perhaps  she  had  never  in  her  life  looked  half  so  beautiful 
as  when  George^  Barctone  opened  the  door  and  stood  before 
her.  '  - 

*'  Dressed,"  he  said,  gazing  at  her  with  eyes  full  of  love  and 
admiration — **  so  soon?  My  darling,  how  lovely  you  lookl 
A  very  lily-queen — so  pure,  so  white,  so  beautiful!'* 

Magdalen  smiled.  An  indescribable  change  had  come  over 
her — a  change  in  voice,  and  face,  aud  smile— -a  change  George 
5aw,  but  could  not  understand. 

**  1  am  a  bride,  you  know,"  she  said,  with  that  soft,  in- 
ward smile,  *'  and  brides  should  wear  white.  Hark!  Is  that 
Fanny  calling?  1  leave  you  to  make  your  toilet,  and  pray  do 
not  linger." 

.  She  floated  from  the  room  ere  he  could  detain  her,  and 
went  to  Fanny's. 

Miss  Winters  had  pressed  the  two  house-maids  into  her 
service,  and  was,  as  Phil  had  predicted,  uplendid  to  behold. 
Green  silk,  fabulously  long,  a  lofty  water-fall,  and  the  crown 
of  ivy  and  crystallized  grasses  shining  amid  her  braids. 

"  Will  1  do?"  demanded  the  heiress. 
me,  Magdalen,  or  am  I  too  red?    How  sweet  you  do  look!-r 
doesn't  she,  Susan? ^so  pale,  and  cool,  and  Maid-of-the-Mist- 
like!    I  never  can  look  half  as  nice  as  you,  dress  as  I  choose. " 

*'  You  are  all  the  better  for  not  being  like  me  in  any  way," 
Magdalen  answered,  **and  your  dress  is  very  becoming. 
While  you  finish,  1  will  step  in  and  see  Aunt  Lydia." 

It  was  to  say  good-bye;  but  Miss  Barstone  did  not  know 
that,  as  she  held  out  her  hand  and  kissed  her  favorite 
nephew's  wife.  There  had  been  no  opportunity  for  that  talk 
she  had  promised  George,  and  there  was  no  time  now.  She 
looked  anxiously  into  the  cold,  white  face  of  this  bride  of  two 
months,  who  kept  her  troubles  buried  out  of  sight  in  her 
heart.  .  > 

**  How  pale  you  are,  my  child!"  she  said,  tenderly. 
**  Your  face  is  as  colorless  as  your  dress.  You  look  hardly  fit 
for  this  party  to-night." 


*'  Does  green  become 


MAGDALEN'S   "VOW. 


219 


(( 


I  am  quite  fit  for  it/'  Magdalen  answered.  **  I  will  be 
entirely  well  when  you  see  me  again.  I  ran  in  to  say  good- 
bye before  leaving.  There  are  the  sleigh-bells  now.  Good- 
bye, dear  Aunt  Lydia — good-bye!  good-bye!*' 

She  kissed  her  twice,  and  hurried  out  of  the  chamber. 
Fanny,  shawled  and  hooded,  stood  at  the  head  of  the  stairs, 
fikid  the  gentlemen  were  putting  on  their  overcoats. 

Magdalen  hastened  into  her  own  apartments,  threw  on  her 
heavy  cloth  mantle,  and  pretty,  fleecy  white  hood.  One  last 
backward  glance  she  cast — a  glance  of  sad  farewell! 

**  Good-bye!"  she  said,  softly — "good-bye,  my  own  dear 
room!    Good-bye,  forever!" 

George  drew  her  hand  within  his  arm,  and  followed  the 
other  pair  to  the  sleigh.  She  kept  her  face  averted  slightly, 
lest  he,  too,  should  notice  the  deathly  pallor  that  lay  on  it. 

There  was  no  auger  in  her  heart  toward  him  to-night; 
somehow,  it  had  all  died  out.  His  retribution  was  close  at 
hand,  and  all  the  unutterable  misery  of  the  past  two  months 
must  end  to-night  for  her. 

There  was  not  even  a  chance  for  thought  once  they  left  the 
house,  much  less  for  private  conversation.  A  large  three-seat 
sleigh  stood  outside  the  gate,  filled  to  overflowing  with  laugh- 
ing girls  and  noisy  young  men. 

The  young  ladies  all  talked  and  laughed  together,  and  a 
jollier  surprise-party  never  made  Milford  ring.  Their  four 
fleet  horses  brought  them,  in  fifteen  minutes,  to  the  residence 
of  Miss  Ella  Goldham,  and  the  big  sleigh  drew  up,  with  a 
vast  deal  of  laughing  and  chatter,  to  the  gate. 

The  full  February  moon  shone  silver-bright  in  the  sky,  and 
made  the  night  almost  as  clear  as  noonday.  Magdalen 
glanced,  and — yes,  there,  under  the  chestnut,  stood  the  dark 
figures  of  a  man  and  a  woman,  only  half  hidden  by  the 
stripped  trees.  No  one  else  saw  them;  all  were  too  full  of  the 
night's  frolic,  as  they  rapidly  paired  olf  and  bustled  up  to  the 
front  door. 

Again  George  drew  her  arm  within  his,  and  led  her  on,  all 
unconscious  of  the  fatal  eyes  upon  him.  Her  heart  seemed 
to  cease  its  beating  as  they  passed  the  spot  where  the  two 
watchers  stood;  but  Phil  and  Fanny  were  behind,  and  she 
dared  not  even  look.  She  fancied  she  heard  a  faint  cry  at  the 
moment.     It  caught  the  quick  ears  ot  Dr.  Phil,  too. 

**  What  is  that?"  he  said,  glancing  sharply  around. 

**  What  is  what?"  said  Fanny,  hurrying  him  on.  **  The 
wind,  of  course,  among  the  treeg.     Look!  there  is  Ella,  go^ 


i\ 


•4f»;^#-" 


220 


MAGDALEN'S    TOW. 


; 


vt- 


;i 


I" 


up  regardless  for  the  occasion.  Our  surprise-party  isn't  much 
of  a  surprise  to  her/' 

An  instant  later,  and  they  were  all  in  the  house,  receiving 
a  cordial  welcome  from  its  youthful  mistress.  The  gas 
burned  low  in  all  the  apartments,  and  speedily  the  house  was 
flooded  with  light,  and  the  young  ladies  had  removed  their 
wraps,  and  were  clustered  in  the  drawing-room,  and  some  one 
was  at  the  piano  playing  a  waltz;  and  then,  two  by  two,  they 
were  revolving  to  the  slow,  sweet  music.  Miss  Ella  Gold- 
ham's  party  was  in  full  swing. 

"Will  you  waltz,  Magdalen?"  George  said,  bending  over 
her  chair. 

He  hardly  expected  she  would;  but  she  rose  at  once,  with 
a  faint  smile.  It  was  her  farewell,  though  he  knew  it  not. 
She  floated  around  the  long  room  in  his  encircling  arms,  his 
tall  shoulder  hiding  her  pale  face;  such  deadly  resolve  in  the 
sore  heart  beating  so  close  to  his  own. 

She  looked  at  her  watch — the  dance  concluded — only  lialf 
past  ten  as  yet.  Before  midnight  Willie  would  be  in  their 
midst  with  that  woman,  and  George  would  be  branded,  before 
all  present,  as  a  murderer.  His  wife  would  confront  them, 
and  she  herself  be  known  for  the  wretched,  betrayed  creature 
she  was. 

**  Death  is  easier,"  she  thought,  with  a  great  calm. 
**  What  will  my  life  be  to  me,  after  to-night,  that  I  should, 
cling  to  it?  It  is  my  fate — I  have  been  under  a  curse  from 
first  to  last!" 

*'  They  want  you  to  sing,  Magdalen,"  Ella  Goldham  said, 
coming  over.     *' Come  along." 

She  rose  immediately,  and  crossed  over  to  the  piano.  She 
sung,  from  memory,  a  little  melancholy  song  that  George 
liked  best. 

There  was  a  deep  pathos  in  the  voice  of  the  singer,  a  solemn 
sweetness  that  went  home  to  every  heart. 

A  profound  stillness  fell,  and  as  she  rose,  so  deathly  white, 
with  such  a  far-off,  vacant  look  in  her  eyes,  her  listeners 
looked  at  one  another  in  strange,  expectant  silence.  Dr. 
Philip's  ringing  tones  broke  the  silence. 

"  Very  pretty,  my  dear  Mrs.  Barstone,  but  rather  too  dirge- 
like for  this  festive  occasion.  Suppose  we  have  something 
lively  to  dispel  the  gentle  melancholy  o'er  us  stealing." 

He  sat  down  himself,  rattled  off  an  accompaniment,  and 
shouted  forth  "  Limerick  Races  "  in  a  fine,  resounding  tenor, 
that  speedily  dispelled  all  signs  of  gravity. 

Then  came  more  dancing — two  or  three  sets  of  quadrilles— 


I 


llAGDALEli'b    VOW. 


2n 


I 


^ 


and  the  merriment  was  at  its  height.  George  was  dancing 
with  Miss  Goldham — Magdalen  had  slipped  away  unobserved. 

Now  was  her  time,  if  ever;  it  was  almost  eleven — in  half  an 
hour,  at  the  furthest,  Willie  would  be  here. 

She  made  her  way  to  the  dressing-room,  concealed  her  white 
dress  beneath  her  long,  dark  mantle,  and  passed  unnoticed 
out  of  the  house.  Her  face  was  set  in  rigid  resolve—her  eyes 
looked  blindly,  blankly  forward  in  great  despair,  and  saw 
nothing.  She  flitted  swiftly  as  a  spirit  down  the  avenue,  out 
of  the  gate,  and  along  to  the  river-bank.  Far  below  it 
flowed  silvery  in  the  moonbeams— one  leap,  and  earthly  pain 
would  end. 

She  stood  still  as  a  statue,  gazing  down  at  its  tranquil  flow 
under  the  white  winter  moon.  Her  heart  felt  dead  in  her  breast 
— every  thought,  every  feeling,  every  sense  was  benumbed — 
she  seemed  slowly  turning  to  stone.  She  never  heard  the 
rapidly  appoaching  footsteps  flying  over  the  frozen  ground. 
It  was  a  voice  calling  her  own  name  that  aroused  her  first. 
With  a  low  cry  she  turned  for  the  fatal  spring,  when  a  hand 
clutched  her  shoulder  and  bore  her  back. 

**  In  God's  name,  Magdalen,  stop!  There  has  been  some 
terrible  mistake  here.  George  Barstone  is  not  Maurico 
Langley!" 


CHAPTER    XXVIII. 

LEARNING     THE     TRUTH. 

She  turned  around  and  faced  the  man  who  had  saved  her 
from  death.  It  was  Willie,  pale  as  herself,  with  wild  face  an^ 
startled  eyes. 

**  Have  you  gone  mad,  Magdalen?"  he  demanded,  savagely. 
**  Is  this  the  way  you  meant  to  confront  and  accuse  the  de- 
stroyer of  your  sister?  Coward!  to  rush  to  self-destruction  to 
escape  trouble!  An  instant  later,  and  you  would  have  been 
beyond  mortal  help.     Are  you  mad,  I  repeat?" 

He  shook  her,  in  his  impatient  anger.  She  put  her  hand  to 
her  head  in  a  bewildered  sort  of  way. 

**  1  don't  know — perhaps  1  am.  I  have  undergone  enough 
to  make  me  mad.     VV^hat  was  it  you  said  about  a  mistake?" 

"  We  have  been  wrong  from  beginning  to  end.  Your  hus- 
band is  not  Maurice  Langley." 

**  Not  Maurice  Langley?"— she  could  just  repeat  the  words 
breathlessly — '*  not  Maurice  Laiigley?" 

**  No,  I  tell  you.  I  am'  certain  of  it,  for  I  have  seen  the 
real  Maurice  Langley  to-night.     Magdalen,  I  am  as  glad  as 


'  kf] 


L'.' 
1  , 


i 


232 


ma<idalen's  vow. 


though  somebody  had  left  me  a  million  of  money,  for  your 
sake.  Your  husband  is  your  husband.  Go  down  on  your 
knees,  if  you  like,  and  beg  his  pardon,  for  we  have  both  done 
him  a  great  wrong.'' 

**  Not  Maurice  Langley!"  Magdalen  said  once  more,  in  the 
same  dazed  way.  **  What  do  you  mean?  George  not  the 
husband  of  that  woman,  but  my  own— my  very  own?" 

**  Your  own.  Caroline  Reed  has  no  claim  upon  him — never 
set  eyes  upon  him  until  to-night.  You  mad  girl!  to  think  of 
you  meditating  suicide,  and  the  truth  coming  out  at  the 
eleventh  hour!  Your  husband  is  not  Maurice  Langley,  I  say 
again;  but  Maurice  Langley,  for  all  that,  is  in  yonder  house.'' 

She  grew  so  faint,  as  she  listened,  that  she  would  have 
fallen  but  for  Willie's  encircling  arms.  The  roar  of  the  river 
was  in  her  ears — the  stars  danced  dizzily  before  her— the  earth 
seemed  reeling  under  h^i*  feet. 

"Don't  faint!"  her  brother  cried,  fiercely — '*  don't  faint, 
1  tell  you,  Magdalen!  This  is  no  time  for  it.  We  have  found 
our  man,  beyond  the  power  of  mistake,  this  time;  and  I  want 
you  to  tell  me  all  about  him  before  you  go  back  to  the  house. 
You  must  get  back,  you  know,  before  you  are  missed,  or  we 
will  have  them  here — confound  them! — looking  for  you. 
Here,  1  brought  this,  for  fear  Caroline  might  get  chilled, 
standing  waiting  in  the  snow.  She  is  a  sickly  thing,  at  best. 
Take  a  pull;  it  won't  hurt  you."  .i 

He  put  a  flask  to  her  lips.  Magdalen  obeyed  mechanically. 
It  was  brandy;  but  she  tasted  it  no  more  than  though  it  had 
been  cold  water.  It  revived  her,  however;  she  stood  erect 
once  more,  and  looked  at  Willie. 

**  Tell  me  all!"  she  said.  **  I  shall  not  faint — 1  am  better 
now — joy  does  not  kill.  But,  oh,  thank  God!  my  darling, 
my  darling!" 

The  endearing  epithets  V7ere  not  for  Jiim,  Willie  knew. 
The  face  upturned  to  the  starlit  sky  was  glorified  with  wifely 
love  and  joy. 

**  Tell  me  all,"  she  repeated.  *'  George  is  not  Maurice 
Langley!  Ah,  my  love!  how  could  1  ever  doubt  you?  Tell 
me,  Willie,  who  is?" 

**  Do  you  recollect  the  man  who  followed  you  and  your  hus- 
band into  the  house,  with  that  fat  little  girl  on  his  arm?  A 
tall  fellow  with  a  blonde  mustache — enough  like  your  hus- 
band to  be  his  brother.     77tat  is  the  man!" 

**  What!"  Magdalen  gasped. 

She  stood  an  instant  gazing  upon  her  brother  in  blank  sur- 
prise.    Strange!  she  had  never  once  thought  of  him^  and  now 


maodalen's  vow. 


2'2'3/ 


»i> 


X 


t> 


a  oonyiotioQ  of  the  truth  burst  upon  hei  like  a  flash  of  sun- 
light. She  saw  it  all — the  resemblance — the  name — the  effect 
of  the  picture — the  whole  tragedy  of  errors  into  which  they 
had  fallen  ever  since  her  wedding-day. 

"He's  the  man — curse  him!  Willie  said.  "Why  don't 
you  speak?    Who  is  ho?    You  ought  to  know." 

"  I  know,"  Magdalen  said,  clasping  her  hands.  **  Oh, 
"Willie,  1  see  it  all!  Why  did  1  never  suspect  this?  J  dis- 
trusted that  man  and  disliked  him  from  the  first;  but  1  never 
knew  why.  Now  I  know.  Oh,  why  did  I  not  su8i)oct  him? 
1  see  it  all — T  see  it  all!" 

**  Do  you?  Then,  perhaps,  you  will  be  good  enough  to  let 
me  see  it,  too.  Allow  me  to  remind  you,  Mrs.  Barstone, 
time  is  on  the  wing.     Who  is  he?^ 

**  He  is  Philip  Barstone." 

**  Barstone!     Whew!     Then  it  is  a  Barstone,  after  all. 

*'  He  is  my  husband's  cousin — Doctor  Philip  Barstone. 
Tell  me,  Willie,  how  you  discovered  your  mistake?" 

**  Why,  by  seeing  him,  of  course.  Caroline  and  1  both 
recognized  him  in  a  moment.  Your  husband  looked  so  un- 
fortunately like  him,  that  1  may  be  pardoned  for  making  the 
mistake.  Had  1  ever  seen  them  together,  I  would  have  known 
the  diff'erence  at  once.  Didn't  you  hear  Caroline  cry  out  at 
sight  of  him?  and  he  turned  around  and  asked  what  was  that; 
then  1  knew  him.  His  hair  and  mustache  used  to  be  dyed 
black — as  his  heart — the  scoundrel!  but  1  knew  his  face  again 
directly.  That  is  our  man,  Magdalen.  Is  he  staying  at 
Golden  Willows?" 

*'  Yes,  and  is  to  be  married  in  three  weeks  to  the  girl  you 
saw  on  his  arm.  She  has  come  into  a  fortune  lately.  That 
is  why  he  is  marrying  her.  Oh,  save  her,  Willie!  Expose 
him  at  once,  and  save  P^anny!" 

Willie  All  ward  laughed  harshly. 
(  '*  I'll  save  her,  never  fear.  You  just  leave  this  matter  to 
me,  Magdalen.  Goii)g  to  be  married  in  three  weeks'  time,  is 
he?  Very  well — I'll  wait  a  little.  On  his  wedding-day,  when 
he  Stands  before  the  clergyman  with  his  bride,  I*Il  be  there, 
too,  with  his  lately  deceased  wife.  Died  in  Bellevue,  did  she? 
He'll  see.  Won't  there  be  a  tableau,  Magdalen?  Sensational 
enough  for  the  Bowery  Theater. " 

"  Oh,  Willie!  For  pity's  sake,  don't  talk  so — don't  wait. 
Think  of  that  poor  girl's  feelings.  Spare  her — expose  him  at 
once.  Come  to-morrow  to  the  house  with  Mrs.  Keed — don't 
let  things  go  on  any  further.  She  has  done  no  wrong — poor 
little  Fanny!    Think  of  her—  think  of  George—my  generous. 


I 

I... 


2U 


Magdalen's  vow. 


wronp;etl  husband — think  of  poor  Miss  Baratone,  who  love* 
him — and  tell  the  truth  to-morrow!" 

Willie  All  ward's  faoo  sot  in  dogged  defiance  and  resolution. 

**  I  will  think  of  no  one — 1  will  Hpare  no  onel  I  will  shovr 
him  the  morc^y  he  has  shown  me,  Laura,  and  Caroline.  The 
accursed  villain!  the  double,  treble,  fourfold  murdererl 
Spare  him?  not  if  an  angel  came  from  yonder  starlit  sky  to 
plead  for  him!  And  n)y  cursj  upon  you,  Magdalen  Barstone, 
jf  you  frustrate  my  scheme!" 

She"  wrung  her  hands.  Her  heart  went  out  in  infinite  com- 
passion to  the  poor  little,  confiding  girl  who  had  loved  him  so 
long  and  so  well.  And  (ieorge  and  Aunt  I^ydia — how  they 
would  suffer!  what  disgrace  would  be  theirs,  for  her  sake! 

**  Oh,  Willie,"  she  cried,  wildly,  '*  bo  merciful — not  to  him, 
but  to  them!  He  will  feel  the  blow  as  deeply  now,  but  they 
will  not.  It  would  kill  poor  Fanny  if  you  dragged  him  horn 
her  side  on  her  wedding-day." 

*'  Young  ladies  are  not  so  easily  killed,"  Willie  retorted, 
with  a  sneer.  **  I  tell  you  I  shall  think  of  no  oi  ^  -spare  no 
one!  1  will  show  him  no  more  mercy  than  if  I  were  a  blood- 
hound on  his  track!  How  dare  you  plead  fovhim^yoii  of  all 
women  alive?  Think  of  your  dead  sister,  your  broken-hearted 
iather,  your  felon  brother,  your  voiv  !  Think  of  your  vow, 
and  ask  me  to  spare  him,  if  you  dare!" 

She  drooped  before  him ;  her  hands  fell. 

"Heaven  help  Fanny!"  she  almost  sobbed,  *' since  lean 
not!" 

**  You  will  leave  this  matter  entirely  to  me,"  persisted 
Willie.  "  1  shall  not  ask  your  help.  Only  remain  neutral 
and  hold  your  tongue.  Caroline  and  1  will  remain  here  until 
the  wedding-day.  Upon  the  wedding-day  we  will  be  there. 
Mind,  not  to  your  husband,  not  to  a  living  soul,  must  you 
breathe  a  word  of  the  truth.  When  the  cup  is  at  his  lip,  when 
a  rich  bride  stands  by  his  side,  I  will  tear  her  and  her  wealth 
'from  him,  and  show  him  to  all  there  as  the  murderer  and 
villain  that  he  is!  On  your  wedding-day,  Maurice  Langley,  1 
think  Laura  and  William  All  ward  will  be  avenged!" 

His  eyes  glowed,  his  voice  rang;  his  whole  frame  seemed  to 
grow  taller  in  his  exultant,  savage  triumph. 

His  sister  shrunk  from  him;  his  burning  thirst  for  revenge 
seemed  a  horrible  thing,  seen  in  another.  In  herself  it  had 
appeared  but  righteous  juBlice. 

1  thmk  you  had  better  get  back  to  the  house  now," 
Willie  said.  *'  They'll  miss  you  presently,  and  that  won't  do. 
Caroline  is  waiting  yonder,  too,  and  will  bo  about  frozen. 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


225 


Tho  sight  of  that  Bcourulrol  has  iipsot  hor  altogether.  You 
women  are  ochl  cattle.  I  believe  wheM  forgive  Jjimgley  to- 
morrow, if  he  asked  her.  Come,  I'll  see  you  safe  to  the  house; 
and  (lon*t  look  so  wild  and  white,  if  you  (;an  hel[)  it." 
..'-■^IIo  seized  her  arm  and  hurried  hor  along.  On  the  way  a 
thought  struck  him,  and  he  stepped. 

*'  1  say,  Magdalen,  look  here.     The  mark  on  tho  arm,  you 
know.     How  do  you  account  for  that:" 
j    Magdalen  had  never  tliouyjht  of  it. 

*'  1  don't  know,"  she  answered,  hopeloQsly.  *'  My  head  is 
in  a  whirl.     I  can  account  for  nothing." 

*'  It  must  ho  that  they  both  l\avc  it,  you  know.  They  lived 
together  as  hoys,  I  suppose?'* 

*'  Yes — 1  believe  so. 

*'  Then  they  both  have  it,  depend  upon  it.  It  was  done  in 
boyhood,  Langlcy  told  me.  You  must  find  out  in  some 
roundabout  way;  but,  mark  or  no  mark,  your  Philip  Barstone 
is  Maurice  Langley.     Now  hurry  along!" 

They  reached  the  house.  The  sound  of  music  and  dancing 
feet  came  merrily  to  them  where  they  stood  in  tho  Holeran 
winter  night.  "VVillio  shook  his  clinched  list  at  the  glowing 
windows. 
\  *'  And  he  is  there — curse  him! — enjoying  it  all,  and  I  stand 
here,  the  felon  he  has  made  mo!  And  you  ask  me  to  spare 
him!  If  he  were  to  bo  hanged  to-morrow,  I'd  be  haugiaan, 
and  plead  for  the  privilege  on  my  knees!" 

She  broke  away  from  him  wildly  and  fled  up  to  the  house. 
She  was  like  a  woman  beside  herself —frantic  for  the  time  with 
all  she  had  suCfered.  She  rushed  alottg  the  lighted  hall,  and 
into  the  brilliant  ball-room,  her  mantle  trailing  behind  her, 
with  wild,  white  face,  dilated  eyes  and  outstretched  arms. 

**  George  I  George!"  she  cried,  **  save  me!  help  me!  forgive 
me!" 

He  was  standing  at  a  little  distance,  bending  over  the  chair 
of  his  hostess  and  a  group  of  gay  girls.  At  that  wild  cry  he 
sprung  forward;  but  before  he  could  catch  her,  she  had 
reeled  blindly  forward  and  fallen  in  a  dead  faint  at  his  feet. 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 

IK     THE     8T0K-ROOM. 

At  Golden  Willows,  Mrs.  George  Barstone  lay  very  ill,  and 
in  Milford  gossip  was  rifo  as  to  the  mysterious  cause  of  that 
illness. 

A  lady  CAn  not  quit  it  gay  party,  absent  herself  for  half 

8 


1 


i 


236 


magdJlLen's  vow. 


an  hour,  and  rush  in  at  the  expiration  of  that  period,  scream- 
ing wildly  and  fainting  dear!  away,  without  exciting  consider- 
able comment.  It  had  eked  out  before  now  that  Mrs.  Bar- 
stone  had  been  a  changed  person  ever  since  her  marriage. 

She  had  returned  from  her  bridiil-tour  a  haggard,  care-worn 
woman,  who  had  left  a  happy,  blooming  bride.  Who  was  to 
blar-?e?  Not  George,  surely — the  sweetest  temper,  the  kind- 
est heart  in  the  place!  Was  there  some  secret  in  Miss  Wayne's 
past  life,  and  was  it  remorse  that  was  wearing  her  to  a  shadow? 

People  talked  in  Milford,  and  up  at  Golden  Willows  the  ob- 
ject of  all  the  chatter  lay  in  her  darkened  room,  tossing  rest- 
*.88sly  on  a  fevered  i)illow. 

They  had  taken  her  home  in  dismay  from  Miss  Goldham's 
party,  still  in  a  state  of  semi-unconsciousness.  Under  the 
care  of  Dr.  Philip  she  had  been  brought  around  at  last,  and 
she  had  started  up  on  her  elbow,  pushed  her  flowing  hair 
^back  from  her  face,  and  gazed  wildly  around. 

She  was  in  her  own  room  at  home.  There  was  Fanny, 
crying  and  frightened,  thcv'e  George,  pale  as  a  ghost,  and 
beside  her,  holding  a  glass  to  her  lips,  Philip  Barstone. 

As  her  eyes  rested  on  his  face,  a  wild  shriek  rang  through 
the  room,  and  she  would  have  sprung  from  the  bed  but  that 
her  husband  had  caught  her. 

**  Take  him  away!"  shu  cried — **  take  him  away!  Oh, 
George!  it  was  lie  who  did  it — he!  he!" 

The  shrieks  ended  in  wild  laughter — Magdalen  was  in 
violent  hysterics.  Before  morning  she  was  raving  wildly  in 
delirium,  and  Dr.  Miller,  of  the  town,  had  taken  his  place  by 
her  bedside,  vice  Dr.  Barstone,  deposed.  <  ; 

Magdaler:  lay  very  ill  for  a  week,  and  Dr.  Miller  looked 
grave,  and  came  three  times  every  day  to  see  her.  But  she 
was  young  and  strong,  and.  the  fever  gave  way  very  speedily, 
and  she  lay  pale  and  prostrate,  but  quite  out  of  danger,  in  her 
darkened  chamber,  and  very  seldom,  either  by  night  or  day, 
did  that  devoted  husband  of  hers  quit  her  bedside. 

Business!  What  was  all  the  legal  business  on  earth  to  his 
darling's  life?  He  forgot  to  eat  or  sleep,  he  grew  almost  as 
pale  and  thin  as  herself,  in  those  nine  days  and  nights  during 
which  her  life  hung  trembling  in  the  balance. 

She  knew  it  all,  as  consciousness  and  memory  returned, 
and  she  lay  very  still,  with  closed  eyes,  and  her  wasted  hands 
clasped  in  his.  She  knew  of  all  the  sleepless  care,  the  sorrow 
so  deep  in  his  heart  that  no  words  had  ever  expressed  it — the 
dumb  agony  in  the  faithful  eyes  that  so  seldom  left  her  face. 

She  knew  it  all,  and  she  remembered,  with  the  keen  in- 


;    r 


i^3i^^^'^ 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


nv 


-) 


tensity  of  a  sensitive  nature,  the  cruel  wrong  that  had  been 
done  him — her  coldness,  her  bitter  words,  the  misery  she  had 
made  him  suffer. 

She  realized  it  all  now,  and  the  slow,  miserable  tears  stole 
down  her  white  cheeks  as  she  turned  her  head  awo.y  from 
him,  aud  he  thought  she  slept — tears  of  shame  and  remorse. 

On  that  sick-bed  Magdalen  Barstone  learned  to  pray — truly, 
perhaps,  for  the  first  time.  Death  had  been  very  near,  and, 
in  the  solemn  light  she  knew  at  last  how  wicked  she  had  been 
— how  sinful  her  vow  of  vengeance!  She  had  vested  in  her 
own  feeble  hands  the  attribute  of  the  Most  High — vengeance. 
She  had  committed  a  crime,  and  the  penalty  must  be  borne. 
George  loved  her  still;  but  how  he  must  hate  and  despise  her 
when  all  became  known! 

At  the  end  of  the  second  week  Magdalen  was  permitted  to 
sit  up.  George  carried  her  in  his  arms  over  to  the  cozy 
rocker  near  the  fire,  his  honest  face  full  of  great  joy. 

March  was  at  its  close  now,  aud  goinjif  out  like  a  lion,  with 
high  winds  and  cold,  dreary  rains.  The  contrast  with  the 
dismal  morning  made  her  firelit,  pretty  room  seem  trebly 
cozy.  George  placed  the  footstool  under  her  feet,  adjusted 
her  pillows  and  shawls,  and  looked  at  her  as  a  mother  looks 
at  her  first-born. 

**  Are  you  quite  comfortable  now,  dear?  Is  there  anything 
else  1  can  get  you?^' 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  smile  very  sad  to  see. 

'*  If  I  wanted  the  clouds  out  of  yonder  sky,  you  would  try 
and  get  them  for  me — wouldn't  you,  George?  Yes,  there  is 
something  else.     I  want  you  to  forgive  me." 

**  There  can  be  no  such  word  between  you  and  me,  Mag- 
dalen.    I  have  nothing  to  forgive." 

**  Nothing!  Nothing  for  all  my  coldness,  my  cruelty,  my 
scornful  words — the  suffering  I  have  made  yoa  endure  all 
these  weeks?  Ah,  George!  1  can  understand  now  what  is 
meant  by  heaping  coaJs  of  fire  on  the  wrong-doer's  head.  Sit 
down  here  beside  me,  and  tell  me— to  please  me,  if  nothing 
else— that  you  forgive  me  for  the  unhappiness  of  your  mar- 
ried life." 

He  took  a  low  stool  beside  her  and  kissed  the  wasted  hand 
that  lay  on  the  arm  of  her  chair. 

"  Out  of  my  heart,  my  darling,  I  forgive  you.  Only  be 
happy  and  well,  and  kind  to  a  poor  fellow  who  loves  you,  and 
1  will  forget  that  time  hai  ever  been." 

She  tried  to  smile  back,  but  a  great  lump  rose  in  her  throat 
m^  ohoked  her.    She  knew  what  was  coming — what  w^a  m 


m 


HH 


228 


MAGDALEN'S    VCTvV. 


near — the  shame,  and  disgrace,  and  sorrow  she  had  no  power 
to  avert.  It  was  a  moment  before  she  could  master  her  voice 
and  speak. 

**  Whatever  the  future  may  bring,  George,  we  will  be  happy 
together  to-day,  at  least.  It  is  very  sweet  to  be  petted,  and 
nursed,  and  loved  so  devotedly  as  you  love  me.  But  I  am  not^^ 
worth  it;  I  am  not  wortliy  of  you.    No,  George;  1  never  was!" 

*'  That  will  do,  j\lagda]en.  Permit  me  to  be  the  best  judge 
of  my  own  wife's  worthiness.  As  for  myself,  1  am  next  door 
to  an  angel;  but  you  might  spare  a  man's  modesty,  and  not 
cast  it  up  to  him.  Do  you  know  what  I  am  going  to  do  with 
you  when  you  get  well?  Carry  you  off  for  a  three^  months' 
tour  through  the  Southern  and  Western  States,  and  perhaps 
to  Canada,  if  you  behave  yourself. " 

His  wife  smiied  a  little,  and  ran  hor  lingers  through  his 
clustering  brown  hair. 

"  Yes,  dear,"  she  said,  absently.  She  was  thinking  how 
to  begin  her  task.  *' George,"  she  exclaimed,  abruptly, 
*'  why  don't  you  ask  me  about  that  night — that  horrible  night 
of  the  party  at  Milford?" 

She  shuddered  as  she  spoke,  and  trembled  nervously.  She 
remembered,  with  horror,  how  near  she  had  been  to  that  one 
crime  for  which  the  Giver  of  life  has  no  forgiveness. 

*'  Because  I'm  not  a  woman,"  the  lawyer  answered,  **  and, 
therefore,  not  endowed  with  curiosity,  and  because  you  must 
not  talk  much,  and,  above  everything,  are  not  to  excite  your- 
self. It  wil  all  come  in  good  time.  Wo  won't  mind  it  to- 
day." 

'*  But  I  had  rather,  George — much  rather.  It  will  not  ex- 
cite me.     It  will  comfort  me  to  tell  you  all  I  may. " 

**  All  you  may!  Does  that  mean  you  are  not  at  liberty  to 
tell  everything?" 

**  Yes.  The  mystery  that  has  made  you  so  wretched, 
George,  all  along,  must  be  a  mys<iery  for  a  short  time  still.  It 
is  the  secret  of  another,  and  1  can  not  disclose  it.  But  what 
I  am  at  liberty  to  tell  I  will.  George,  on  that  night  of  the 
party  I  discovered  I  had  done  you  a  great  and  cruel  wrong — 
that  1  had  mistaken  you  for  another,  and  misjudged  you  be- 
yond reparation  almost.  That  knowledge  excited  me  so  mu'^h 
that  I  fainted  at  your  feet. 

George  looked  rather  puzzled.  It  was  7Wt  the  most  lucid 
explanation  in  the  world,  certainly. 

**  Magdalen!  Me — mistaken  me  for  another?"  he  re- 
peated. **  Mistaken  me  for  whom?  And  what  did  you  think 
J  had  done,  pray?" 


^ 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


229 


<( 


(< 


(i 


99 


Magdalen  bent  forward,  took  both  his  hands  in  hers,  and 
looked  earnestly  into  his  eyes. 

*'  George,  if  I  tell  you  this,  will  you  give  me  your  promise 
never  to  repeat  to  any  one — not  Aunt  Lydia — not  Fanny — 
not  a  creature  in  the  world — not  your  cousin?*' 

**  Certainly,  Magdalen.     Why  shonld  I  tell  them?" 

**  Because,  dear,  I  don't  intend  this  as  a  reproach,  mind, 
you  didn't  quite  keep  your  promise  of  secrecy  in  a  former 
case.     You  told  your  cousin  all  about  me,  in  New  York." 

**  He  surprised  it  out  of    me,"  George  said,   penitently. 

He  asked  me  point-blank  if  your  name  was  not  Allward, 
and  he  knew  all  about  your  sister  and  brother.  He  took  me 
so  much  by  surprise,  1  give  my  word  that  I  let  him  find  out 
almost  before  1  knew  it.  1  have  been  very  sorry  for  it,  since, 
I  assure  you.  But,  you  see,  you  resemble  your  late  sister,  it 
appears,  and  he  recognized  your  resemblance  at  once. " 

*'  It  does  not  matter,"  Magdalen  said,  quietly.  **  But 
what  I  am  going  to  say  to  you  now  does.  He  must  not  know 
it." 

He  shall  not.     Trust  me,  Magdalen. " 

Then,  George,  1  took  you  to  be — Maurice  Langley. 

George  sat  and  stared  at  her,  the  whole  meaning  of  her 
words  not  striking  him  at  once. 
"    His  blank  face,  even  in  that  moment,  made  Magdalen  smile. 

"Gracious  powers!  took  me  to  be  Maurice  Langley!  Me 
the  betrayer  of  your  sister — the  tempter  of  yoxxv  brother! 
How,  in  the  name  of  all  that  is  wonderful,  could  you  havj 
made  such  a  mistake?" 

**  That  is  one  of  the  things  1  may  not  tell  you.  It  would 
involve  the  discovery  of  the  real  criminal.  1  thought  so,  and 
only  on  the  night  of  the  party  did  I  find  out  my  error." 

"  Who  told  you  that  night?" 

"  The — the  person  who  has  been  in  the  habit  of  writing  to 
me  o!  late — who  is  here." 

**  Oh,  Johnstone!  Well,  I  owe  him  one  good  turn,  at  least. 
How  came  he  to  know  anything  about  it?" 

"He  has  discovered  Maurice  Langley,  the  real  criminal. 
He  "takes  as  much  interest  in  this  matter  as  I  do.  I  told  you 
he  was  a  relative.  It  is  on  this  subject,  and  no  other,  that  he 
has  written  me — that  1  have  met  him  secretly  two  or  three 
times." 

"  Why  didn't  you  have  him  at  the  house?  I  never  dis- 
turbed you,  Magdalen;  but  then,  you  see,  it  looked  queer,  and 
others  might  find  it  out  and  talk.  And  1  don't  want  my  wif^ 
tidked  about."  . 


»30 


MAGDALEN  S    VOW. 


**  I  am  afraid  you  will  not  be  able  to  prevent  it,  my  pool 
George.  He  was  poor,  and  ashamed  of  his  poverty.  He 
would  not  have  come.    And  my  vow  obliged  me  to  meet  him.'* 

**  Oh,  confound  the  vow!''  George  said,  with  an  inward 
groan.     **  I  hope  ^/i«^  won't  crop  up  again."    Then,  aloud: 

1  wish  you  would  tell  me  how  you  first  came  to  mistake  me 
lor  that  matchless  scoundrel,  of  all  people  in  the  world?  1 
may  have  gone  a  little  awry  in  the  past,  but,  by  Jove!  how 
you  could  suppose  me  capable  of  such  crimes,  I  can't  under- 
stand. Come;  1*11  make  a  clean  breast  of  it.  A  little  before 
your  family  misfortunes  1  was  in  New  York,  a  wild  member 
of  a  wild  company  of  lawless  bohemians.  I  was  intrusted,  by 
Aunt  Lydia,  with  six  hundred  dollars,  to  be  paid  over  to  a 
person  in  that  city.  I  got  to  drinking  and  gambling — led,  I 
am  bound  to  say  in  self-defense,  by  others.  I  got  deeply  in- 
volved in  debts  of  honor,  as  they  call  them,  and,  still  tempted 
by  another,  1  appropriated  Aunt  Lydia's  money.  There  is 
the  one  crime  of  my  life,  Magdalen.  And  I  have  been 
ashamed  of  it  ever  since.  Aunt  Lydia  forgave  me — bleca  her! 
— and  1  have  done  my  best  ever  since  to  atone.  I  kept  it 
from  you.  I  thought  it  could  not  concern  you.  Perhaps  1 
should  have  told  you  long  ago." 

*'  1  think  I  know  who  your  tempter  was,"  observed  his 
wife.     **  His  name  was  Philip  Barstone." 

**  Hush,  my  dear!  Phil  has  sown  his  wild  oats,  and  re- 
formed, too.  And  speaking  of  Phil,  do  you  know  whose  pict- 
ure that  was  you  placed  on  the  dining-room  table  some  time 
ago?" 

**  Yes.     It  is  the  picture  of  his  wife." 

"  Was,  you  mean— she's  dead.  In  the  name  of  wonder, 
Magdalen,  hoW  did  you  find  that  out?" 

'*  That  must  be  another  secret.  You  saw  her,  then,  and 
knew  her?" 

**  I  never  knew  her,  and  I  only  saw  her  once,  when  he^ 
pointed  her  out  on  the  street  to  me.  Very  few  evej  knew  of 
Jhat  foolish  marriage.  How  you  came  by  your  mysterious 
knowledge  is  a  puzzler.  You  must  not  tell  Fanny.  He  wants 
her  kept  in  the  dark.  Very  wrong,  I  think;  but  that's  his 
business."  •  , 

There  was  a  brief  pause. 

**  You  know  now,  George,"  Magdalen  resumed,  **  the  rea-^ 
son  of  my  coldness  and  secret  trouble;  the  cause  of  my  meet- 
ing that — that  man  and  receiving  his  letters.     I  wronged  you, 
and  I  ask  your  pardon  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart!" 

**You  have  it  from  the  bottom  of  mine!"  and  he  kissed 


magdalek's  vow. 


231 


ff 


ird 


1 

)re 


her  tenderly.  **  Bufc  it  was  not  fair,  Magdalen.  You  should 
have  accused  me  openly,  and  let  me  clear  myself.  You  said, 
a  moment  ago,  you  had  found  the  true  Maurice  Langlej. 
Will  you  tell  me  who  he  is — or  is  this  a  third  secret?" 

**  It  is  a  secret.  We  have  found  him,  and  he  shall  be  made 
to  atone  for  the  past.  It  is  too  late  to  draw  back  now.  I  am 
bound  by  a  vow  1  must  keep.  Remember,  George,  if  in  the 
future  you  are  disposed  to  blame  me  very  much,  that  1  warned 
you.  1  told  you  before  our  marriage  of  my  vow,  of  the  pur- 
pose of  my  life— and  that  nothing,  not  even  a  husband's  love 
and  devotion,  should  stand  between  me  and  my  vengeance. 
Try  and  recall  that  when  1  denounce  my  great  enemy." 

George  looked  very  grave,  very  much  troubled. 

"  You  have  found  him,  and  it  is  your  intention  to  denounce 
him?  Does  that  mean  you  will  take  retribution  in  your  own 
hands,  or  that  you  will  yield  him  up  to  the  law?" 

**  To  the  law,  of  course.  What  could  I  do — poor,  weak 
woman  like  me?" 

*'  Weak  bodily,  perhaps,  but  terribly  strong  in  this  relent- 
less purpose.  And  how  will  the  law  avenge  you?  He  has 
done  your  sister  and  brother  great  wrong;  but,  as  1  told  you 
before,  that  revenge  does  not  place  him  within  reach  of  the 
law." 

**  I  am  aware  of  that,"  Magdalen  said,  in  a  somber  voice. 
**  It  is  not  of  those  crimes  he  will  be  accused.  In  his  past  life 
there  lies  another,  known  but  to  myself  and  one  other — a 
crime  for  which  many  years'  imprisonment  and  hfe-long  dis- 
grace must  atone.  For  that  crime  he  will  be  denounced  and 
given  up  to  the  law." 

George  rose,  very  much  agitated. 

'*  Magdalen,  Magdalen,  what  is  it  you  are  about  to  do? 
This  man  deserves  his  doom,  no  doubt,  but  let  yours  not  be 
the  hand  to  wreak  it.  Crime  should  not  be  hidden  from  pun- 
ishment; but  yoii. — my  genf.le  Magdalen,  my  cherished  wife — 
for  you  to  turn  Nemesis,  and  work  the  ruin  of  any  man!  Oh, 
my  love,  my  love!  for  my  sake,  desist  I" 

**  I  have  vowed,"  Magdalen  answered,  in  the  same,  gloomy 
tone. 

'*  An  impulsive,  girlish,  romantic  act,  not  only  foolish  in  the 
doing,  but  sinful  in  the  keeping.  Think  of  the  notoriety  for 
you — how  you  will  be  dragged  through  a  trial — through  news- 

Sapers  over  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  land!    Oh,  Mag- 
alen,  stop  and  think  while  there  is  yet  tima" 
'*  There  is  no  longer  time.     The  power  to  desist  has  passed 
from  me,     George!"  she  cried,  starting  up,  *'  let  me  tell  you 


\ 


♦'  / ' 


232 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


<i 


one  other  secret.  The  man  who  writes  to  me-»  'i^i^m  1 
meet — whose  alias  is  Johnstone — is  my  brother — my  ?^rother, 
free  from  prison  before  our  marriage,  and  bent  ou  revenge. 
It  is  he  who  discovered  all  this.  It  is  ho  who  will  denounce 
Maurice  Langley — not  I.'' 

George  Barstone  drew  a  long  breath  of  intense  relief.  Mag- 
dalen was  one  thing,  Magdalen's  brother  quite  another. 

"  Oh!  so  he  is  the  avenger?"  George  said.  *'  That's  quite 
a  different  thing.  1  shouldn't  mind  helping  him  myself,  only 
it  will  be  an  ugly  business,  dragging  your  domestic  troubles 
before  the  public.  May  1  ask  what  is  tho  crime  of  which  your 
brother  will  accuse  him?" 

**  Murder  /"  Magdalen  said,  in  a  low,  awe-struck  tone — 

a  most  foul  and  unnatural  murder!  Oh,  George,  spare  mo 
— I  have  told  you  all  I  may  tell.  Let  us  talk  of  this  no  more. 
Soon — very  soon — you  will  know  all. " 

Her  look  and  manner  were  so  wild  that  George  grew 
alarmed.  He  hastily  replaced  her  in  her  seat,  and  strove  to 
soothe  her. 

**  Certainly,  we  will  cease  to  speak  of  it.  Only  tell  me,  is 
your  brother  still  in  Milford?" 

"  He  is,  I  have  every  reason  to  believe. '^; 

"  And  may  I  not  see  him,  Magdalen — my  wife's  only 
brother?    1  may  be  able  to  advise  him — to  help  him." 

**  Not  for  worlds!"  she  said.  **  You  don't  know  what  yoii 
ask.  There  is  Fanny's  rap  at  the  door,  George.  Go  and 
leave  me  for  a  little  while;  you  have  been  in  this  close  room 
all  day.     And  mind,  all  this  is  a  secret  between  us." 

**  Inviolable!"  He  stooped  and  kissed  her.  "  I  wish  you 
could  trust  me  fully,  Magdalen.  When  will  the  day  come 
when  there  mV  be  no  more  secrets  between  us?" 

**  Very  soon — very  soon  now.  Rest  easy^eorge.  Befort 
the  end  of  two  weeks  you  will  know  all." 

"  All?"  he  said,  abruptly. 

**A11!" 

*  *  Thank  Heaven  for  that ! " 

Magdalen  trembled  at  that  fervent  thanksgiving. 

**  If  he  only  knew!"  she  thought — "  if  he  only  knew!" 

A  moment  later,  and  Fanny  was  in  the  room,  voluble  in  her 
inquiries  regarding  the  patient's  health,  and  George,  with 
rather  a  rueful  face,  went  out  into  the  wet  March  morning 
for  a  smoke  and  a  constitutional  ^ 


// 


■■'X 


<j)      I 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW, 


233 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

BEFORE  THE   WEDDING. 

Mr.  George  Barstone  might  be  very  anxious  for  the  re- 
covery of  his  ?vife,  but  lie  was  not  one  whit  more  anxious  than 
one  other  person  ac  Golden  Willows — Miss  Winters.  If  Mrs. 
Barstone  saw  fib  to  have  a  tedious  illness,  or  to  die,  she  must, 
in  common  decency,  postpone  her  wedding — and  which  of  us 
would  like  to  postpone  our  wedding?  i^'anny  was  a  great  deal 
too  fond  of  Phil,  and  too  eager  to  be  off  upon  that  delightful 
wedding-trip.  ]*hilip  had  his  own  private  reasons  also — very 
different,  indeed — for  dreading  delay. 

Philip  Barstone  was  Maurice  Langley,  and  ever  since  the 
night  of  the  party  he  krew  his  cousin's  wife  had  known  it 
He  was  not  a  cowardly  man,  but  from  the  first  time  he  had 
seen  her  he  had  had  a  superstitious  dread  of  his  cousin's  wife. 
She  had  come  upon  him  with  her  youthful  beauty,  her  golden 
hair,  and  her  blue  eyes,  like  a  ghost  that  first  night — like  the 
ghost  of  the  girl  he  had  done  to  death.  He  knew  of  the  pur- 
pose of  her  life — he  understood  the  mistake  she  had  made  in 
confoiinding  him  with  George — he  knew  that  the  man  she 
met  in  New  York  and  in  Milford  was  her  brother,  whom  he 
had  made  a  felon.  He  knew  that  the  instant  she  discovered 
him  she  would  denounce  him,  and  then  adieu  to  all  hope  of 
Fanny  and  her  fortune.  Fanny  was  devotedly  and  senti- 
mentally fond  of  him,  and  not  overwise;  but  Fanny  was  a 
pure-hearted  girl,  also^  who  would  shrink  from  so  base  a 
villain  as  he.  He  never  dreamed  for  an  instant  that  the 
darker  secret  which  lay  in  his  life  was  in  the  possession  of 
brother  and  sister.  Had  he  known  the  truth,  indeed,  he 
would  have  seen  how  deeply  he  had  reason  to  fear  her. 

Philip  Barstone  had  been  a  thoroughly  bad  and  unprincipled 
man — a  drunkard,  a  gambler,  a  libertine.  Willie  All  ward 
was  not  the  only  youth  whose  feet  he  had  first  led  into  the 
road  to  ruin,  nor  were  Laura  Allward  and  Caroline  Reed  the 
only  women  whose  lives  he  had  blasted. 

That  was  all  past  now,  and  he  had  reformed.  Yes,  but 
through  no  remorse  for  his  crimes,  through  no  horror  of  his 
own  guilt.  Villainy  had  proved  a  losing  game,  and  inwardly 
cursing  his  luck,  he  had  taken  to  lioueEty  as  the  best  policy, 
and  at  heart  was  as  evil  as  ever.  The  hour  of  fruition  had. 
come,  after  long  waiting,  and  a  fortune  was  within  his  grasp. 


/ 


234 


MAGDALEN  S.  VOW. 


He  might  leave  the  country,  and  in  far-ofif  Paris  enjoy  life, 
after  his  views,  to  his  heart's  content,  always  supposing  his 
identity  as  Maurice  Langiey  was  e  t  discovered  until  after  the 
wedding-day. 

**  A  fig  for  her  then,"  he  thought.  '*  Fanny  will  be  mine, 
and  her  fortune,  which  is  the  chief  consideration,  beyond  all 
power  of  yours,  my  tali,  handsome  Mrs.  Barstone." 

But  now  he  was  sure  she  had  discovered  the  real  culprit. 
He  understood  that  wild  cry  for  forgiveness  to  George — the 
horror  with  which  she  had  turned  from  him.  She  knew  all. 
"Would  she  suffer  him  to  wed  Fanny,  and  hold  her  peace? 
When  the  fever  was  at  its  highest,  he  had  ardently  hoped  that 
either  life  or  reason  might  go,  but  when  both  came  back  he 
nerved  himself  to  face  the  worst. 

"Fanny  is  a  fool,''  he  mused,  "and  would  lay  her  head 
under  my  feet  if  1  asked  her.  Who  knows?  8he  may  marry 
me  in  spite  of  all — in  spite  of  Aunt  Lydia's  interdiction.  If 
1  am  accused,  it  is  of  no  use  denying — they  can  bring  incon- 
testable proofs;  but  if  I  can  persuade  Fanny  to  run  away  with 
me,  what  will  it  signify?  Why  the  deuce  couldn't  she  die, 
like  better  women?'' 

Dr.  Phil  devoted  himself  more  than  ever  to  his  betrothed, 
and  pushed  on  the  preparations  for  the  wedding  with  feverish 
haste.  It  was  fixed  for  the  fifteenth  of  April,  and  it  was  now 
the  last  week  of  March. 

**  Mrs.  George  won't  die,  Fanny,"  he  said — **  not  a  fear  of 
it;  and  we  won't  postpone  our  marriage  nor  the  preparations. 
Keep  the  dress-makers  and  milliners  at  work  all  the  same. 
There  shall  be  no  postponement  in  our  case. " 

**  1  hope  not,  I  am  sure,"  Fanny  responded,  with  a  very 
serious  face;  **  it*s  so  dreadfully  unlucky,  you  know,  Phil. 
There  was  Magdalen.  Her  wedding  was  postponed,  and  see 
what  comes  of  it.  She  has  been  just  as  miserable  ever  since 
as  ever  she  can  be.  And  now  she's  got  a  mysterious  braid 
fever — nobody  knows  why.  1  think  if  1  lost  you,  Phil,  1 
should  have  a  brain  fever,  too.  They  always  have  one  in 
books,  you  know — such  nice,  interesting  complaints — brain 
fever,  or  throbbing  headache,  or  fall  dead,  like  a  flash,  of 
heart  disease,  or  pine  away  in  a  decline,  and  die  with  an  un- 
natural flush  upon  their  cheeks  and  unnatural  luster  in  their 
eyes.  You  never  hear  of  a  heroine  having  toothache,  or 
small-pox,  or  yellow  jaundice,  or  those  nasty  complaints,  I 
am  certain  I  should  have  a  brain  fever  if  I  lost  you,  Phil." 

•'  Are  you  quite  certain  you  love  me  enough  for  that, 
Fanny?"  Dr.  Phil  asked,  with  apathetic  glance  of ^is dark 


/ 


*  <l 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


2SB 


*yes.     **  1  wonder  what  you  really  wotdd  do  and  dare  lor  lay 

iake?" 

**  Anything — everything!  I'd  go  through  fire  and  water 
lor  your  sake,  you  know  I  would,  Philip — though  what  good 
iRoing  through  fire  and  water  would  do  any  one,  I  can't  see. 
I've  loved  you — oh,  for  ages  and  ages! — and  I  would  die — 
yes,  I  would  drown  myself  or  take  laudanum — if  I  lost  you 
now.  But  there  is  no  fear  of  that,  is  there,  Phil?"  his  de- 
^voted  slave  inquired,  nestling  under  his  wing. 

Dr.  Phil  put  his  arm  around  her  and  gave  her  a  kiss. 

**  No  fear,  I  hope;  but  who  can  tell.  Fan?  There  is  many 
a  slip,  and  1  have  enemies  who  would  injure  me  if  they  could. 
Suppose,  for  instance,  some  one  came  and  told  you  I  had  be- 
haved very  badly  in  the  past — I  have  sown  my  wild  oats,  you 
know,  my  darling,  like  other  fellows— suppose  they  told  you 
very  shocking  stories  about  that  past,  what  would  you  do?" 

**  Slap  their  faces,  if  I  could,"  answered  Miss  Winters, 
promptly,  **  and  not  believe  a  word  of  it." 

Phil  half  laughed. 

**  But  suppose  the  wicked  stories  to  be  true — suppose  1 
couldn't  disprove  them — what  then?" 

**  Then  I  should  tell  them  to  mind  their  own  business,  and 
forgive  you,  and  never  think  about  it  again,  so  that  you  were 
al  ways  good  to  me  and  fond  of  me.  I  love  you  so  dearly, 
Phil,  that  I  could  forgive  you  anything,  excepting  being  false 
to  me." 

**  You  are  quite  surS;  Fanny — 'xnytlmig  ?** 

*'  Well,  of  course,  excepting  murder,  or  something  awful 
like  that,  which  it's  ridiculous  to  think  about.  Only  love  me 
and  keep  true  to  me,  and  all  the  slanders  in  the  world  will  not 
part  us." 

The  gray  darkness  that  shadowed  the  young  man's  sallow 
face  at  times  fell  on  it  as  she  spoke,  and  he  released  her  sud- 
denly and  walked  over  to  one  of  the  windows. 
)  Murder !  The  faces  of  a  woman  and  a  child  rose  before 
him  as  vividly  as  he  had  ever  seen  them.  The  sunlit  draw- 
ing-room faded  away.  He  saw  a  miserable  hut,  a  glimmering 
tallow-candle,  a  man  in  drunken  frenzy,  a  pale  woman,  with 
a  sleeping  child  in  her  arms.  He  saw  the  blind  rage  of  the 
man,  the  horrible  blow  that  felled  mother  and  child;  he  heard 
again  that  wild,  deep  shriek,  and  the  cold  drops  stood  thick 
on  his  ghastly  brow. 

Murder!  The  white  face  of  Laura  Allward — white  with 
woman's  utmost  woe,  as  she  had  stood  before  him  that  last 
night — came  back  as  plainly  as  in  that  '^ery  hoar. 


'•^:l 


^36 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


Caroline  and  her  child  slept  in  one  grave;  Laura  All  ward 
lay  under  the  waving  grass  and  clover  in  her  distant  country 
home.  Oh,  God!  how  black  and  awful  was  the  record  that 
lay  behind  him!    Murder?    Not  one  murder,  but  three. 

Fanny  followed  him  to  the  window,  and  looked  up  in  his 
lace  with  anxious  eyes. 

**  How  pale  you  are,  Phil!  What's  the  matter?  What 
makes  you  say  such  things  to-day?  Oh!"  clasping  her  hands 
tragically,  **  nothing  is  aoout  to  happen,  surely?  Nothing  is 
going  to  part  us  now?" 

**  Nothing,"  Philip  Barstone  said,  resolutely  setting  his 
teeth  and  turning  to  her — **  nothing,  Fanny,  so  that  you  love 
me  and  trust  me.  We  will  bo>  married  on  the  fifteenth  of 
April,  in  spite  of  the  world  and  all  therein.  By  the  bye,  I 
have  written  to  a  friend  of  mine  in  New  York  to  come  down 
and  be  groomsman  on  the  occasion.  You  have  heard  of  him, 
1  dare  say.  He  is  a  novelist;  tremendous  fellow  with  pen 
and  inkstand.     His  name  is  Tdmpkins." 

**  Oh,  Phil!"  cried  Fanny.  **  An  author!  a  real  author, 
aftd  that  author  Mr.  Tompkins!  Why,  I'd  give  all  the  world 
to  see  him!  His  stories  are  the  loveliest  I  ever  read.  But  1 
won't  dare  to  speak  to  him,  and  I'm  sure  he  won't  deign  to 
look  at  poor  little  me.  A  man  whose  ideal  is  so  perfectly 
lovely,  so  tall,  so  magnificent,  so  majestic,  must  despise  such 
a  commonplace  creature  as  1  am.  What's  he  like?  Very 
tall  and  very,  very  handsome,  with  great  solemn  black  eyes 
and  long  hair — isn't  he?" 

Phil  laughed. 

**  Tompkins  is —  No;  wait  until  you  see  him.  Here's  hia 
answer — perhaps  you  would  like  to  see  it?" 

Fanny  seized  it  eagerly.  It  was  only  a  half  sheet  of  note- 
paper,  and  written  in  a  great  slap-dash,  atrociously  unreadable 
writing: 

"  Deae  Phil, — Got  yours — wish  you  joy.  Any  more 
heiresses  where  she  came  from?  Will  be  down,  of  course. 
Look  for  me  next  week.  Yours,  etc. 

R.  T." 

Miss  Winters  was  a  little  disappointed.  There  were  two  big 
blots,  and  for  an  eminent  author  there  wasn't  much  in  this 
epistle. 

And  then  Phil  went  out  to  saunter  away  to  the  town,  and 
Fanny  went  up  to  Magdalen's  room. 

It  was  the  young  doctor's  habit  to  visit  Milford  every  day, 
and  keep  a  sharp  lookout  for  Willie  Allward;  but  he  never 


...  jSI 


maodalen's  vow, 


23*? 


J 


«aw  him.  "Willie  remained  within-doors  until  after  nightfall, 
when  he  took  Caroline  out  for  a  little  walk,  quietly  bwing  hia 
time. 

George  left  the  sick-room  as  Fanny  entered,  and  Miss  Win- 
ters, taking  his  vacant  stool,  told  the  invalid  wife  ?,11  about 
her  trousseau  in  active  preparation,  of  the  day  they  had  ap- 
pointed, of  the  coming  of  the  celebrated  Mr.  I?ichurd  Tomp- 
tiiis,  and  even  of  Philip's  mysterious  remarks  that  iflorning. 
I  **  1  wonder  what  he  meant,  Magdalen?  Perhaps  he  didn't 
mean  anything.  1  don't  half  understand  Phil  at.  times;  but 
I  think  I  like  him  all  the  better  for  that.  He's  been  dreadful 
wild  in  the  past,  I'm  afraid,"  said  Fanny,  with  (jreat  relish; 
*'  but  do  you  know  I  like  wild  young  men?  Lorq  Byron  was 
wild,  and  1  adore  Mm — and  Edgar  Poe  used  to  get  tipsy, 
they  say.  When  we're  married,  perhaps  he'll  toll  me  all 
about  it." 

**  Fanny,"  said  Magdalen,  putting  the  question  point-blank, 
*'  did  you  ever  see  that  odd  mark  George  has  tattooed  upon 
his  left  arm?" 

"Why,  yes,"  answered  Fanny,  at  once;  "  of  coiiroe  1  have. 
Phil's  got  another  exactly  like  it. " 

**  Indeed?    On  the  same  arm,  and  exactly  like  it?" 

"  Pre-cisely  the  same.  They  both  had  them  done,  when 
boys,  by  a  sailor  at  Milford.  I've  seen  them,  and  heard  Aunt 
Lydia  tell  how  angry  she  was.     Why?" 

*'  Oh,  nothing!  the  thought  struck  me.  So  Doctor  Bar- 
stone  has  been  talking  of  losing  you,  has  he?  Would  it  make 
you  very,  very  unhappy,  Fanny?" 

'*  1  should  die!"  answered  Fanny,  solemnly. 
~  *'  No!"  said  Magdalen — "  no,  Fanny,  we  don't  die  so 
easily;  and  it  is  only  in  novels  that  people  break  their  hearts, 
or  their  blood-vessels,  and  fall  dead  with  trouble.  You'd 
lose  him  and  live,  and  forget  him  altogether,  by  and  by,  in 
the  love  of  a  better  man. " 
j    *'  A  better  man!    Mrs.  Barstone,  how  dare  you?" 

**  I  beg  yor  pardon,  Fanny.  He  owns  himself  he  has  been 
wicked,  and  so  do  you.  If  he  was  shown  to  you  as  a  villain, 
a  villain  steeped  in  crime  to  the  lips — I  am  only  putting  a  case, 
remember— would  you  not  scorn,  and  cast  him  off,  and  forget 
him?" 

"  Oh,  dear,  no!  1  don't  think  so— I  couldn't,  you  know.  1 
tell  you  I  should  die,  or  go  mad,  if  I  lost  him.  I  love  him 
with  all  my  heart,  and  couldn't  live  without  him.  Don't  let 
ns  talk  about  such  horrid  things.  I  shall  be  dreaming  all 
night  that  he  is  a  Eugene  Aram,  and  that  he's  been  torn  horn 


238 


Magdalen's  vow. 


me  and  tuken  to  prison  with  *  gyves  upon  his  wrists.'    You'll 
be  down-stairs  to-morrow,  Magdalen,  1  suppose?" 

Magdalen  said  yes,  and  kept  her  word.  She  came  down- 
stairs the  following  evening  on  George's  arm — George,  look- 
ing 80  unspeakably  proud  and  happy — and  was  installed  in  the 
great  cushioned  chair  bul'oro  the  lire.  _ 

George  lingered,  looking  at  her  with  admiring  eyes. 

How  fair,  how  pure,  how  swuot  she  looked,  he  thought,  in 
her  flowing  white  robes  and  freshly  curled  amber  hair — the 
old  tender  smile  for  him  buck  again  on  the  dear  face. 

But  all  the  tender  light  vanished  presently  when  Philip 
Barstone  came  in  and  ai)proached  her  chair,  with  outstretched 
hand,  and  ready  words  of  greeting  upon  his  facile  lips. 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Barstone!  my  dear  Magdalen!  I  am  more 
than  rejoiced  to  see  you  among  us  once  more.  The  house  has 
been  like  a  tomb,  and  you  have  been  sadly  missed  by  more 
than  George." 

Magdalen's  eyes  Hashed — flashed  blue  fire  upon  the  auda- 
cious miscreant.  She  glanced  at  the  outstretched  hand,  and 
turned  her  back  upon  him  in  dead  silence. 

In  spite  of  himself,  a  livid  red  flush  crossed  his  sallow  face, 
and  the  gleam  in  his  dark  eyes  was  an  evil  gleam  to  see. 

George  gazed  blankly,  and  Fanny,  in  the  door-way,  flashed 
indignant  fire  upon  the  invalid,  who  thus  deliberately  insulted 
her  demi-god.  But  no  one  spoke,  and  the  pause  which  fol- 
lowed Philip  Barstone  might  well  remember  to  the  day  of  his 
death. 

**  Come  and  practice  *  Limerick  Kaces,'  "  his  betrothed 
said.  *'  Ella  Goldham,  her  brother,  and  a  few  other  friends 
are  coming  to-night.     Come!" 

She  opened  the  piano,  played  the  symphony,  and  Philip 
crossed  over  mechanically,  and  stood  beside  her. 

His  face  had  changed  again  to  the  dull-gray  pallor  it  took 
at  times,  and  he  looked  quite  ghastly  in  the  glimmer  of  th« 
lamp-light. 

She  knew  all,  then— all!  That  meant  she  knew  him  for 
Maurice  Langley — the  destroyer  of  her  sister  and  brother. 
Not  only  that — but,  knowing  that,  he  had  great  reason  to 
fear  her  now. 

"  The  game  with  Fanny  has  been  too  easy,"  he  thought; 
"there  can  be  no  such  luck  in  store  for  me.  I  have  held 
winning  cards  ere  now,  but  the  game  has  never  been  mine. 
Something  will  happen  before  the  wedding-day.  Let  her  take 
care!    If  she  balks  me  in  this,  let  her  take  care!" 

The  expected  guests  arrived  by  the  time  Philip  had  song  his 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


23!) 


Bong  tnrico,  and  a  very  plousant  evening  followed.  Through 
it  ail,  Pliilip  watched  his  ootisiii's  wife  with  furtive,  oeaselesa 
eyes;  but  ho  never  a[)p('()ii(5hod  or  addressed  her.  She  knew 
him  as  ho  was.  Of  all  thoao  present  who  had  known  him 
from  boyhood  up,  this  pale,  golden-haired  invalid  alone  know 
him  for  the  vilhiin  ho  was. 

Magilalon  retired  early,  and  kept  her  room  until  late  next 
day.  When  sho  desooudcd  to  the  drawing-room,  n3ar  uooDy 
flhb  found  it  deserted  by  all  save  Miss  Winters. 
-•  Fanny  was  seated  at  a  table  near  tho  window,  bending,  with 
pursed-up  mouth  and  knitted  brows,  over  a  sketch  in  water- 
colors.     8ho  looked  up  despondently  as  Magdalen  came  in. 

**  It's  horrid!'*  broK  out  tiio  artist,  looking  vindictively  at 
her  own  production — a  gontlemaii  in  a  ily-avvay  cloak  and  a 
cooked  hat,  with  tho  whites  of  his  eyes  uproUed  in  an  alarm- 
ing manner,  striking  a  guitar  beneath  a  lady's  lattice.  **  It's 
horrid!  and  I  wanted  it  to  look  particularly  nice,  that  Phil 
might  see  how  I/ve  improved.  My  ligures  never  will  stand 
steady  on  tludr  legs  as  yours  do,  Magdalen;  and  this  grass  is 
the  color  of  brown  paper;  and  I  don't  believe  there  ever  was 
a  sky  as  purple  as  this  is.  It's  no  use— it's  like  my  usual 
late.     Everything  goes  wrong  with  me." 

She  pushed  the  work  of  art  away  with  an  impatient  sigh, 
and  looked  out  at  the  drear  and  dismal  morning. 

**  I  used  to  think  it  was  a  lovely  thing  to  he  unhappy," 
pursued  Miss  Winters.  '*  1  used  to  think  there  was  nothing 
on  earth  so  jiice  as  to  be  haughty,  and  handsome,  and  miser- 
able, like  the  heroine  of  a  novel.  I  ain't  handsome,  and  I 
can't  be  naughty,  though  I've  tried  hard  enough  before  now, 

foodness  knows;  but  I'm  just  as  miserable  as  I  can  be,  and 
don't  take  the  least  comfort  in  it.  It's  all  Phil's  fault.  1 
don't  know  what's  come  over  him.  He's  as  silent  and  sulky, 
when  we're  alone  together,  as  though  he  were  a  Manfred,  or 
a  corsair,  or  something.  If  he  had  a  secrer sorrow  or  a  mur- 
der on  his  mind,  he  couldn't  bo  more  grumpy.  And,  in 
books,  grumpy  men  are  so  nice.  There  was  Monsieur  Roches- 
ter, you  know,  Magdalen,  just  as  hateful  as  he  could  be,  and 
who  could  help  loving  him?  But  it's  different  in  real  life, 
and  I  don't  believe  Phil  cares  for  me  a  bit.  It's  just  my 
fortune  he  wants;  and  I  dare  say  I  shall  be  a  neglected, 
wretched,  broken4iearted  wife  as  soon  as  we're  married." 

Dr.  Barstone's  betrothed  produced  her  handkerchief  and 
sniffed  a  little  behind  it;  but,  after  all,  there  was  a  dismal  sort 
of  enjoyment  in  thus  reviewing  her  woes. 
j^^She  wa«  engaged  to  the  *'  idol  of  her  soul  "—bo  Miss  Win* 


240 


UAnDALliN'S    VOW. 


ters  called  him,  mentally;  aud  he  snubbed  her  unmercifully 
at  times,  and  she  was  unhappy,  and  a  heroine  at  last. 

Miss  Winters  plumed  hersolf  rather  on  the  distinction,  and 
took  Edith  Dombeyish  airs,  and  posed  herelf  a  la  Medora, 
waiting  broken-hearted  for  Conrad,  while  that  wretched  man 
enjoyed  himselt  with  Gulimre. 

Magdalen  listened  wearily.  She  had  her  own  troubles, 
many  and  heavy,  but  she  was  always  gentle  and  patient  with 
Fanny. 

**  It's  only  your  fancy,  dear  Fanny,''  Magdalen  said. 
**  Doctor  Philip  is  very  fond  of  you,  t  dure  say,  though  it 
may  not  be  his  way  to  show  it.'  He  sat  by  3  cur  side  ail  last 
evening." 

"  Oh,  he  didi"  Fanny  retorted.  **  Much  good  that  did  me! 
Do  you  know  who  he  looked  at  from  the  first  moment  he  sat 
down?  You  I  yes.  Mi's.  George  Burstoue — you!  And  it's 
my  belief  he's  a  great  deal  more  in  love  with  you  than  with 
me.  You  oueht  to  hear  all  the  ouostions  he  used  to  ask 
about  you,  until  I  got  mad  and  refused  to  answer  any  more. 
1  have  flirted  just  as  hard  as  1  knew  how  with  Frank  Leigh 
before  now.  Wha.  did  he  care?  1  don't  believe  he  ever  saw 
me.  And  that's  why  I  am  so  dreadfully  wretched!"  con- 
cludad  Miss  Winters,  again  producing  her  handkerchief.  *'  I. 
don't  so  much  mind  his  being  crusty,  and  snappish,  and 
silent,  and  mopish,  but  I  do  mind  his  falling  in  love  with  a 
married  woman,  and  that  woman  his  own  cousin-in-law. 
How  do  1  kno'^  lie  hasn't  told  you  he  loves  ypu,  and  very 
likely  asked  yo"  to  elope  with  hiiin?  He'd  do  it  as  soon  as 
look.  Why  else  should  you  insult  him  as  you  did  last  night? 
You  wouldn't  shake  hands  with  him — you  wouldn't  answer 
him — you  looked  at  him  with  what  books  call  *  ineffable 
scorn ' — and  you  gave  him  the  cold  shoulder.  People  don't 
treat  their  husband's  first  cousin  like  that  for  nothing.  He's 
in  love  with  you,  Magdalen  Barstone,  and  you  know  it;  and 
you  both  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourselves.  What  would 
George  sf\y,  1  should  like  to  know,  to  such  goings-on?" 

In  spite  of  herself,  Magdalen  had  to  laugh  at  the  absurd 
mistake  and  Fanny's  indignant  face. 

**  My  dear  Fanny,  what  a  supremely  silly  idea.  Don't  you 
know  how  insulting  to  me  your  horrible  accusation  is?  Philip 
Barstone  and  I  have  very  little  love  for  each  other,  1  assure 
you.  Ah,  Fanny,  if  1  could  only  make  you  listen  to  reason — 
if  I  only  dared  tell  you!  But  what  is  the  use?  Every  word 
thaii  1  say  you  will  repeat  to  him  five  minutes  after;  and  if  he 
told  you  white  was  blacky  you  would  bslieve  him  in  spite  of 


,i       l! 


'*«..u«.tu:- 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


241 


your  oTin  eyesight.  Dou't  you  know,  you  foolish  child,  that 
he  is  only  marryiTig  you  for  your  fortune?" 

**  Of  course  1  kaow  it!"  cried  the  heireps,  Bhrilly.  **  Didn't 
he  tell  me  so?  People  can't  live  on  ai.,  even  if  tliey  are  mar- 
ried to  their  soul's  idol;  and  if  he  had  nothing,  and  I  had  less— 

"  '  Would  the  flamo  that  we're  so  rich  in 
Light  a  lire  in  the  kitchen, 
Or  the  little  god  of  love  tura  the  spit,  spit,  spit?* 

Of  course  it  wouldn't.  But  when  1  came  into  my  fortune, 
that  was  quite  a  different  thing.  I  don't  care  for  the  money. 
He  might  have  it,  and  welcome.  But  I  do  wish  he  loved  me 
as  I  love  him.  Sometimes  he's  as  good  as  he  can  be,  and  I'm 
happy;  and  then  again  he  turns  dismal  and  sulky,  and  hasn't 
a  word  to  fling  at  a  dog.  And,  if  it's  so  before  marriage, 
what  will  it  be  after?" 

**  What,  indeed?"  Magdalen  eagerly  said.  "  Oh,  Fanny, 
pause  while  there  is  yet  time.  Discard  this  man.  He  is  base 
and  mercenary,  and  will  make  you  miserable.  Send  him 
away  and  forget  him.  Show  him  you  have  proper  womaiily 
pride  and  spirit.  George  is  going  to  take  me  South.  Come 
with  us.  Wait  a  little,  and  some  good  man,  who  really  loves 
you  for  yourself;  will  come  alon^  and  make  j^ou  a  happy  wif<*. 
Don't  marry  Philip  Barstone.  He  is  a  bad,  bar!  man.  Oh, 
Fanny,  for  your  own  sake,  send  him  away  before — " 

Fanny's  round,  light-blue  eyes  were  fixed  in  wonder  on  the 
excited  speaker's  face. 

*'  Well,  before  what?"  she  demanded,  suspiciously.  **  What 
do  you  know  of  him?   AVho  told  you  he  was  a  bad,  bad  man?" 

'*  I  know  it — that  is  enough.  Give  him  up,  Fanny.  He  is 
unworthy  even  to  touch  your  hand." 

*'  Mrs.  George  Barstone,"  said  Miss  Winters,  rising,  and 
swelling  with  dignity,  **  enough  upon  this  subject.  Doctor 
Barstone  is  my  betrothed.  Even  from  you,  his  first  cousin-^ 
in-law,  I  can  not  hear  these  disparaging  remarks.  If  you  ever 
repeat  those  words  in  my  presence — mine,  his  plighted  wife — 
I'll  never  spuak  to  you  again  as  long  as  I  live.  Oh,  good  gra- 
cious! here  he  comes,  and  a  strange  gentleman  with  him.  I'll 
bet  you  anything,"  clasping  her  hands  and  flying  to  the  win- 
dow, **  it's  the  author  from  New  York.  But,  no,  it  can't  be; 
he  doesn't  look  a  bit  like  an  author." 

It  was,  however.  Dr.  Philip  came  in  and  presented  a  tall, 
light-haired,  light-eyed  gentleman,  in  glasses,  as  Mr.  Richard 
Tompkins,  of  New  York  City. 

J^n  Tompidus  was  uear-sighted,  and  the  glasses  were  the 


p 


2^2 


Magdalen's  vow. 


\ 


only  literary  feature  about  him.     lie  had  wisps  of  straw-col- 
ored whiskers  aiid  a  feeble  mustache — you  might  have  counted 
the  hairs — r.nd  he  had  large  ears,  and  a  pug  nose,  and  a  few 
freckles  amid  his  complexion.     And  this  was  the  author  oi- 
'*  Lady  Rosabella  *'  and  the  *'  Bandit's  Seven  Brides." 

He  bowed  to  the  young  ladies,  taking  Magdalen  to  be  the 
doctor's  affianced,  made  the  remark  that  the  day  was  fine, 
and  that  he  hoped  he  saw  them  well. 

Mr.  Tompkins  had  a  great  deal  to  say  for  himself,  indeed, 
and  kept  the  house  in  a  very  lively  state,  aided  by  Fanny,  who 
fraternized  with  the  gentleman  from  New  York  at  once. 

She  had  not  much  time  to  devote  to  him,  for  it  was  now  the 
first  week  in  April,. and  the  wedding-day  was  drawing  rapidly 
near. 

There  were  two  seamstresses  with  flying  needles  in  one  of 
the  upper  rooms,  and  every  morning  Miss  Winters  drove  into 
Milford,  and  returned  with  the  carriage  freighted  with  parcels. 
If  perfect  happiness  is  ever  to  be  found  on  earth,  I  think 
Fanny's  state  just  at  this  time  approached  it  very  closely.. 

It  would  seem  but  natural  that  the  bridegroom  should  share 
this  beatitude.  Was  not  the  dream  of  his  life  about  to  be 
realized?  Was  he  not  about  to  marry  an  heiress?  But  ever 
since  the  episode  of  the  ambrotype  he  had  known  no  rest 
What  if  Magdalen  and  her  brother  knew  all — all?  What  if 
the  man  who  had  dashed  into  that  solitary  cottage,  upon  that 
horrible  night  five  years  ago,  were  Willie  AUward? 

He  had  wondered  many  times  since  who  that  man  could 
have  been.  He  had  not  caught  the  least  glimpse  of  his  face, 
and  had  set  him  down  as  some  neighbor  or  passing  stranger. 

What  if  it  had  been  Willie  Allward,  and  that  his  cousin's 
\?lle  knew  of  his  hidden  crime,  and  meant  to  denounce  him 
at  the  very  altar? 

The  cold  dew  stood  upon  his  brow  at  the  {bought;  it 
haunted  him  day  and  night;  he  could  find  no  rest  anywhere. 
He  grew  moody,  and  sullen,  and  silent,  day  by  day,  and  spent 
his  whole  time  in  watching  with  eager  eyes  his  cousin's  wife. 

He  grew  thin  as  a  shadow — the  old  cynical  smile  never  ap- 
peared on  his  sallow  face  now — Fanny's  frivolous  prr.ttle  drove 
nim  nearly  mad.  If  the  worst  came,  and  he  were  denounced, 
what  then?  The  exposure,  the  arrest,  the  trial,  the  sentence! 
What  would  that  sentence  be?  He  had  committed  a  double 
murder — unpremeditated,  and  done  in  a  moment  of  drunken 
frenzy,  it  is  true;  but  men  had  been  hung  for  less. 

The  sword  hung  over  his  head,  and  the  thread  that  held  it 
was  awfull)^  frail.    If  evtr  retribution  came  home  to  any 


MAGDALEN  S    VOW. 


2id 


wrong-doer,  it  came  home  to  Philip  Barstone  in  those  dayn  of 
his  greatest  success.  Laura  All  ward's  sister  was  hourly 
avenging  her  now — he  dreaded  that  pale,  quiet,  resolute  girl 
as  he  had  never  thought  to  dread  any  one  in  his  life. 

George,  busy  every  day  in  the  town,  and  the  least  suspicious 
of  mankind  at  any  time,  saw  nothing  of  all  this.  Mr.  Tomp- 
kins, a  student  of  character  by  necessity,  watched  him,  with 
sleepy,  half-closed  eyes,  and  saw  that  something  was  seriously 
wrong,  and  chaffed  his  friend  upon  the  subject. 

'*  Con't  be  an  ass,  Dick!'*  was  Dr.  Philip's  reply.  **  All 
this  fuss  and  bustle  is  enough  to  try  any  man's  nerves.  1 
wish  to  Heaven  the  thing  were  all  over,  and  that  a  thousand 
leagues  of  the  Atlantic  lay  between  me  and  this  place." 

He  said  it  with  such  suppressed  intensity  of  tone  that  Mr. 
Tompkins  eyed  him  askance. 

*'  It  is  something  deeper  than  1  fancied,"  he  thought. 
**  Are  some  of  his  wild  oats  cropping  up  at  this  unseasonable 
time  of  day,  or  is  it  that  he's  in  love  with  George's  wife? 
She's  as  handsome  as  a  picture,  and  as  cold  as  an  icicle,  and . 
just  the  sort  of  woman  men  go  mad  for.  He  watches  her  as 
a  cat  does  a  mouse;  but  whether  it's  for  love  or  hatred,'Ni8  not 
so  clear.  One  thing  is  plain  enough — she  heartily  di^kes 
him."  \ 

The  doctor  certainly  watched  her  with  feverish  eagernesk 
He  dreaded  strangely  to  see  her  quit  the  house.     While  sh^ 
remained  at  home,  passive,  he  felt  a  sort  of  security,  and  she 
made  no  attempt  to  leave  it. 

She  passed  her  time  with  Miss  Barstone,  or  in  her  own 
apartments.  He  rarely  saw  her,  except  at  table.  She  wrote 
no  letters;  she  showed  no  inclination  to  go  to  Milford;  she 
received  no  more  notes  from  there. 

Had  her  brother  departed?  he  wondered.  He  scoured  the 
town  himself,  but  never  came  across  him. 

Was  it  just  possible,  after  all,  that  he  was  alarming  himself 
needlessly?  that  they  knew  nothing  of  his  greatest  crime? 
that  her  possessing  that  picture  was  only  some  wonderful 
chance? 

Oh,  that  the  wedding-day  were  come  and  gone,  and  this 
suspense  at  an  end! 

And  Sunday,  the  eleventh  of  April,  came,  and  nothing  had 
happened.  On  Thursday,  the  fifteenth,  the  marriage  would 
take  place,  and,  a  few  hours  after,  he  would  be  away  and  safe. 
Would  the  intervening  days  p»°«^  uL.d  notb'"g  happen? 


2U 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


■;.?yr 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

DRAWING  NEAR. 


\' 


If  Philip  Barstone  suffered  all  the  tortures  of  terror  and 
suspense  which  guilt,  upon  the  brink  of  discovery  must  ever 
Bufter,  she  whose  vow  of  vengeance  was  on  the  verge  of  such 
signal  fulfillment  suffered  hardly  less. 

Not  for  his  sake.  Never  for  one  instant,  at  any  time,  did 
her  heart  soften  with  the  faintest  feeling  of  pity  for  him.  He 
deserved  the  worst  that  could  possibly  befall  him,  and  she 
would  not  have  lifted  a  finger  to  save  him. 

But  those  others  who  loved  him— Fanny,  George  and  that 
patient  womanly  martyr  upstairs,  whose  life  had  been  so  full 
of  suffering — how  keenly  they  would  feel  the  shame,  the  dis- 
grace, the  exposure;  how  they  would  hate  her  when  they  dis- 
covered she  had  been  working  in  the  dark  all  this  time — that 
she  might  have  told  them  weeks  before — that  she  had  held 
her  peace  and  waited  for  her  revenge  until  the  very  last  mo- 
ment! 

They  would  never  forgive  her.  Through  her  Fanny's  life 
W<^nld  be  blighted,  and  shame  and  sorrow  fall  upon  their  peace- 
ful home.  What  ought  she  to  do?  Go  to  George  and  reveal 
all  while  there  was  yet  time. 

She  had  started  up  more  than  once  with  the  confession  upon 
her  lips,  but  ere  the  words  were  uttered,  the  memory  of  what 
Willie  had  said  would  return:  *'  My  curse  will  be  upon  you  if 
you  come  between  me  and  my  revenge!''  and  her  sister,  as  she 
saw  her  last,  cold  in  death,  would  arise  before  her  to  hold  her 
back  from  that  better  course.  And  her  vow — her  vow  was 
upon  the  eve  of  realization — should  she  break  that  oath  lo  the 
jdead  and  the  wronged  now? 

Philip  Barstone's  keen,  careless  eyes  saw  the  daily  and 
hourly  struggle,  and  more  than  half  understood  it.  She 
knew  all,  and  for  George's  sake  she  feared  to  tell.  What  if, 
after  all,  he  were  torturing  himself  for  nothing?  What  if, 
for  George's  sake,  she  would  keep  the  secret  to  the  end? 

'*  There  are  women  who  can  keep  a  secret,"  he  thought, 
**  and  this  is  one  of  them.  She  loves  George  well  enough  to 
commit  any  act  of  self-abnegation  for  his  sake,  if  that  cursed 
J)rother  of  hers  will  only  let  h?v  i>lone.  Good  heavens!  to 
think  that  every  ambition  of  my  life  should  be  so  near  fruition. 
Mid  tiittt  one  word  from  that  pale,  inscrutable  young  woman 


Magdalen's  vow. 


245 


B         li 


// 


should  have  pov^er  to  end  all  and  send  me  for  life  to  a  convict 
cell !" 

Mr.  Tompkins,  accustomed  to  make  human  nature  in  all 
its  various  phases  the  study  of  his  life,  watched  Dr.  Philip 
with  sleepy,  half-closed  eyes,  and  drewr  his  own  deductions. 

"  The  cad's  in  love  with  his  cousin's  wife  for  certain," 
mused  the  writer  of  fiction,  **  and  she's  aware  of  it.  But 
that's  no  reason  why  he  should  be  afraid  of  her;  and  he  is 
afraid,  by  George!  almost  to  speak  in  her  presence.  He 
watches  her  as  a  terrier  watches  a  rat,  and  with  much  the 
same  amiable  expression  of  good-will;  or  has  he  a  secret,  etc.? 
and  does  she  know  it?  Who'd  think  of  finding  a  romance  in 
real  life  in  a  dull  country  house,  in  a  dull  country  town,  and 
on  the  prosaic  occasion  of  a  wedding?  And  George,  like  a 
model  husband,  is  blind  as  a  bat  and  sees  nothing." 

Mr.  Tompkins,  interested  in  the  case  purely  from  profes- 
sional causes,  watched  George  Barstone's  wife  and  George 
Barstone's  cousin,  and  became  more  convinced,  with  every 
passing  hour,  that  his  surmise  was  right 

Dr.  Phil  was  afraid  of  that  pale,  fair-haired  girl,  who  never 
by  any  chance  spoke  to  him  if  she  could  possibly  ^void  it 
She  held  some  secret  of  his— unknown  to  the  rest  of  the  house- 
hold— and  he  dreaded  her  horribly,  and  was  falling  away  to  a 
shadow.  .  \,: 

The  sunny  spring  days  were  gliding  away  fast — horribly 
fast,  it  seemed  to  Magdalen — bringing  the  fatal  wedding-day 
nearer. 

Thursday,  the  fifteenth,  was  fixed  for  the  ceremonial,  and 
it  was  now  the  evening  of  Sunday,  the  eleventh.  She  sat  by 
the  drawing-room  window  alone,  looking  blankly  out  at  the 
silvery  twilight  and  at  the  figures  walking  about  near  the 
waving  willows — George  and  Dick  smoking  their  cigars — and 
a  little  beyond,  Fanny,  in  white  muslin,  a  sailor-hat  on  her 
head,  a  cluster  of  roses  on  her  breast,  clinging  to  the  arm  of 
her  lover,  and  gazing  up  in  his  face  with  radiant  eyes. 

He  looked  worn,  and  moody,  and  unutterably  bored  as  he 
listened  and  answered,  and  ever  and  anon  his  eyes  would  turn 
to  the  window  where  the  solitary  watcher — the  Nemesis  of  his 
life — sat. 

"What  was  she  thinking  of  there  alone?  he  wondered.  Plot- 
ting his  ruin,  as  likely  as  not.  Monday,  Tuesday,  Wednesday, 
Thursday — four  endless  days  of  suspense  and  mental  tortare 
ere  Fanny  could  be  his  wife,,  and  miles  ot  sea  and  land  lie  be- 
tween him  and  his  cousin's  wife. 

Those  four  da^s  look^  an  eternity.    He  felt  as  though  the 


246 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


uncertainty  was  driving  him  mad.  She  had  not  seen  her 
brother,  he  was  convinced,  since  her  illness,  and  he  figured 
favorably  from  that. 

But  the  stranger,  Johnstone,  was  still  in  Milford — ^he  had 
never  rested  until  he  had  convinced  himself  of  that — still 
stopping  at  Freeman's  boarding-house,  with  a  woman  he 
called  his  sister.  (He  had  even  met  them  face  to  face,  on* 
cloudy  night  in  a  deserted  street,  and  he  and  Willie  Allward, 
for  one  instant  of  time,  had  looked  straight  and  steadily  into 
each  other's  eyes,  and  passed  on. 

It  was  a  mutual  glare  of  hatred,  defiance;  and  the  woman 
upon  the  lad's  arm  had  uttered  a  faint  cry  and  clung  closer 
to  her  protector.  A  thick  veil  hid  her  face,  but  a  vague 
something  in  that  cry,  in  her  shape  and  size,  haunted  him 
strangely,  after  they  had  passed  by. 

He  stood  in  the  dull,  deserted  street  and  looked  after  them. 
Who  was  the  woman?  and  what  was  young  Allward's  motive 
in  keeping  her  here  and  passing  her  off  as  his  sister?  He  had 
no  sister,  Philip  knew  well,  but.  George's  wife;  and  what 
other  motive  could  he  have  at  all  in  remaining  in  Milford 
8tt7e  the  motive  of  exposure?  On  all  sides  danger  and  dis- 
covery menaced  him;  it  seemed  madness  even  to  hope  for 
escape. 

'*  Would  to  God  I  had  never  seen  Laura  All  ward's  baby 
face!"  he  thought,  bitterly.  "Would  to  God  I  had  walked 
in  the  straight  way.  I  should  not  now,  in  the  supreme  crisis 
of  my  life,  be  hedged  around  with  enemies."  ^ 

More  than  once,  unseen  himself,  he  had  haunted  the  hum- 
ble boarding-house  where  Willie  Allward  dwelt;  sometimes  in 
the  bleak,  wintery  dusk,  rewarded  by  seeing  him  come  out 
with  the  veiled  and  shawled  woman — his  mysterious  compan- 
ion— upon  his  arm.  He  watched  them  while  they  took  their 
evening  walk,  and  returned  to  the  house,  never  venturing 
(near  enough  to  hear  what  they  said. 

An  indefinite  something  about  this  veiled  and  shawled 
woman  thrilled  him  strangely  with  the  conviction  that  some- 
where, and  at  some  past  time,  that  walk,  that  figure,  had  been 
familiar. 

*'  Who  can  she  be?"  he  wondered.  *'  Young  Allward  has 
no  wife,  no  sister,  no  female  relative  whatever,  except 
George's  wife.  The  only  motive  he  can  have  in  remaining 
here  is  my  exposure.  Can  that  woman  be  in  any  way  neoes- 
sanr  to  his  plot?  and  for  what  does  he  wait  so  long?" 

Me  was  thinking  such  thoughts  as  these  while  he  walkod  by 


MAGDALEN'S   VOW. 


247 


I 


Fanny's  side,  while  he  answered,  at  random,  her  frivolous 
talk  about  the  wedding-clothes  and  bride-maids. 

His  face  looked  pale  and  worn  in  the  starry  twilight — his 
eyes  moody,  and  with  a  far  away  look  in  their  dark  depths. 

**  How  dull  you  are,  Phil,"  his  bride-elect  murmured,  re- 
proachfully. **  I  don't  biplieve  you  have  heard  one  word  I've 
been  saying.  A  person  might  think,  to  look  at  you,  you  were 
in  love  with  somebody  Jelse,  and  quite  heart-broken  at  the 
thought  of  marrying  7ne !  You  say  you  like  me,  and  all 
that,  but  I'm  sure  you  don't  go  ori  much  as  if  you  did.  1 
don't  believe  you  care  one  pin  for  me." 

**  My  dear  Fanny,"  the  doctor  said,  impatiently,  awaking 
from  his  trance,  "  for  Heaven's  sake,  let  us  have  done  with 
your  jealous  nonsense!  *  Go  on,'  indeed.  How  do  you  want 
me  to  go  on?  Must  I  kneel  perpetually  at  your  feet,  it  la 
Romeo,  swearing  deathless  devotion,  with  George  and  Tomp- 
kins to  applaud?  For  mercy's  sake,  Fanny,  don't  be  a  baby 
always!  I'm  as  fond  of  you  as  it's  in  my  nature  to  be  of  any 
one;  but  I  don't  take  the  same  absorbing  amount  of  interest 
in  white  moire  for  you,  and  pink  grenadine  for  the  bride-maids, 
and  the  rest  of  it,  that  you  do.  I  have  other  things  to  think 
about,  now  that  I  am  on  the  eve  of  leaving  this  country,  most 
likely  forever." 

Fanny  looked  at  him,  almost  angry  with  her  idol  for  once. 

"Other  things  to  think  about!  Yes,  I  know  that  I'm 
the  last  thing  you  think  much  about.  Suppose  we  go  in. 
Doctor  Barstone?  Yes,  Magdalen  is  still  sitting  by  the  win- 
dow, and  ever  since  we  came  out  here,  when  you  were  not 
staring  with  all  your  might  at  nothing,  you've  been  staring  at 
her.  There's  something  between  you  two.  Oh,  you  needn't 
deny  it!  I  mayn't  be  clever  and  that,  as  you  and  she  are,  but 
I  can  see  some  things.  I  don't  know  what  it  is.  You  m&y 
be  in  love  with  her;  but  I  can  tell  you  for  your  comfort.  Doctor 
Philip  Barstone,  she  hates  you  like  poison.     There!" 

The  little  outburst  of  jealousy  passed  quite  unheeded;  ht 
only  heard  the  last  words. 

'*  Ah!"  he  said,  **  Mrs.  Barstone  talks  of  me  to  you,  does 
she?  What  does  she  say?  If  she  hates  me  so  intensely,  1 
only  wonder  she  doesn't  endeavor  to  prevent  you  marrying 
me." 

**  She  does!"  responded  Fanny,  promptly;  **  she  has.  She 
says  you're  a  bad  man,  a  fortune-hunter,  and  that  I  will  be 
unhappy  as  your  wife.  Phil,  she  wouldn't  hate  you  so  with- 
'out  s^ome  good  reason;  what  is  it?  She  hardly  speaks  to  yon, 
jpvi  know;  and  she  turned  her  back  upon  you  1^  last  tune 


248 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


you  wanted  to  shake  bauds  with  her.     It's  enough  to  make 
any  one  suspicious  and  jealous,  I  think." 

**  Then  vou  need  be  neither.  Tlie  reason  of  Mrs.  George's 
dislike  is  patent  enough,  I  should  say.  I  have  found  her 
9utr 

**  Found  her  out!  What  do  ^oc.  mean?  What  has  she 
dc.  ^^" 

ja\.  keeps  assignations  with  an  unknown  man;  she  re- 
cr-'/es  letters  from  him,  and  I  have  discovered  her  in  the  act, 
both  here  and  in  New  York.  Don't  you  recollect  the  night 
of  George's  absence,  her  visit  to  the  '^Id  mill  i/i  the  snow- 
storm? Have  you  forgotten  what  you  saw  yourself  before  she 
ever  married  Getrger  What  Mrs.  Barstone's  secret  may  be, 
I  don't  pretend  to  say;  but,  as  I  told  yju,  I  have  found  her 
•  ufc,  and  she  hatecj  me  accordingly.  I  should  not  be  at  all 
surprised — it  would  oe  quite  like  your  sex — if  she  trumped  .up 
80^ le  cock-and-bull  story  of  past  murders  of  mine  to  frighten 
you.  1  watch  her— yes,  1  don't  deny  it.  Her  unconcealed 
aversion  amuses  me;  but,  my  dear  little,  foolish  Fanny,  be 
jeaious  of  all  the  rest  of  the  world,  if  you  choose,  only  leave 
George's  wife  out  of  the  reckoning.  1  would  go  to  her 
funeral  to-morrow,"  concluded  the  doctor,  truthfully,  '*  with- 
ibe  greatest  pleasure. " 

And  then,  it  being  quite  dark  by  this  time  in  the  Willow 
Walk,  and  the  two  smokers  out  of  sight,  the  doctc  kissed  his 
betrothed,  and  whispered  a  few  words  in  her  efir  that  set  her 
smiles,  dimpleb,  and  good-humor  once  more  in  full  play;  and 
then,  as  the  dew  was  falling,  he  led  her  in. 

**  Thank  Heaven!  this  time  next  Sunday  we  shall  have  left 
your  insufferable,  stupid  Milford  miles  behind  us,  and  be  on 
our  way  to  a  fairer  land,  where  spiteful  young  women  Jun't 
come  between  us  any  more,  and  my  Fanny  will  be  all  my  own. 
Every  hoar  will  seem  like  a  century  to  me  until  Thurbday  has 
come  and  gone." 

Which  was  perfectly  true,  though  not  quite  in  the  flattering 
sense  Miss  Winters  received  it.  Would  U'hursday  come  and 
go  in  safety  for  him,  and  make  Fanny  and  her  fortune  all  his 
own? 

Magdalet  sat  at  the  piano  when  the  lovers  entered,  playing 
solemn,  sweet  melodies  of  Iviozart  for  George,  sitting  near  her. 

Fanny  drew  Phil  into  a  window-recess,  where,  she  could 
watch  the  moon  rise,  listen  to  the  plaintive  melodies  and  Phil's 
tender  protestations  at  once.  . 

Like  all  young  women  in  love,  her  appetite  for  sentimental 
declaratiouB  was  dusatiable^  and  the  more  it  was  fed,  the  more 


Magdalen's  vow. 


2id 


I 


3t  oravecl.  It  bored  him  horribly,  biik  he  was  in  for  it,  and 
must  play  the  love-sick  faroo  to  the  end,  which  meant,  with 
him,  the  day  after  the  wedtliiig. 

Magdalen  could  see  them  from  where  she  sat,  and  Fanny's 
happy  face  smote  her  with  a  sense  of  keen  piiysical  pain. 

She  glanced  up  at  her  iinsband — the  honest  blue  eyes  were 
bent  upon  her,  full  of  that  trustful  love  she  had  learned  to 
know  so  well,  blindly  faithful  and  dog-like.  And  upstairs 
Aunt  Lydia  was  quietly  content,  at  last,  that  this  wedding 
should  take  place.  And  she — she  was  about  to  change  all 
this  domestic  peace  to  misery  and  shame — about  to  breaic  that 
poor  child's  heart — about  to  blazon  the  story  of  Philip  Bar- 
stone's  crimes  far  and  wide  over  the  country — about  to  let  the 
world  know  the  bitter  story  of  her  own  family  disgrace. 
George's  love  would  turn  to  hatred.  Her  home  could  be  no 
longer  here.  It  was  the  last  Sunday,  perhaps,  of  all  the  Sun- 
days of  her  life  which  she  should  sit  thus  by  his  side,  beloved. 

In  one  brief  week  she  would  have  left  all  this,  and  him,  for- 
ever; and  they  would  have  good  reason  to  hate  the  hour  that 
first  brought  her  across  the  threshold. 

And  still  she  played  on,  the  solemn,  plaintive  airs  George 
liked,  never  stirring  from  the  sonatas  until  the  evening  was 
far  gone. 

Long  after  the  household  was  asleep  that  night,  Magdalen 
lay  broad  awake.  Was  it  too  late  yet,  she  thought?  Three 
days  still  remained.  She  had  no  thought  of  sparing  Philip 
Barstone;  but  Fanny,  George,  Aunt  Lydia — the  public  dis- 
grace, at  least,  might  be  saved  them. 

Fanny's  wedding  must  not  take  place,  of  course,  and 
Fanny's  sorrow,  and  disappointment,  and  mortification,  would 
be  very  bitter;  but  better  sorrow  for  a  few  weeks  than  life- 
long misery. 

Sije  had  only  to  tell  George  the  whole  story  to-morrow  to 
bring  forward  Willie  and  Caroline,  to  prove  her  words,  and 
Philip  Barstone  would  leave  Golden  Willows  to  cross  its 
threshold  no  more. 

To  lose  friends,  home,  and  fortune— surely  iJiat  were  pun- 
ishmiiit  enough.  Let  hi^n  go  and  hide  his  guilt  and  despair 
in  some  distant  laud,  renounce  all  claim  upon  Fanny,  and  her 
vow  would  have  been  kept  sufficiently. 

Some  story  could  be  got  up  to  account  for  the  broken-o£f 
ma.Tiage,  and  neither  Miss  Barstone  nor  George  could  very 
greatly  blame  her  for  her  part  in  hunting  him  down.  They 
would  be  grateful  instead  that  she  had  saved  Fanny. 

Why  should  she  condemn  herself  to  life-long  suffering;  even 


■^ 


m 


■m 


uo 


magdalek's  vow. 


to  punish  him?  And  she  wanted  justice,  not  revenge.  It 
was  very  well  for  Willie  to  talk  of  sacrificing  everything  to 
avenge  Laura  and  himself.  Was  she  to  lose  her  happy  home, 
her  beloved  husband,  to  bring  eternal  shame  and  sorrow  upon 
all  who  loved  her  most,  to  bring  about  this  public  theatrical 
denouement?  By  only  exposing  him  to  his  family,  he  cer- 
tainly would  escape  the  punishment  be  so  richly  deserved — 
that  of  the  law;  but  better  one  bad  man  should  escape  than  a 
whole  innocent  family  be  made  to  suffer. 

Yes;  there  was  yet  time — time  to  save  herself  and  those  she 
loved  so  dearly,  and  they  should  be  saved.  To-morrow  she 
would  see  Willie,  and  beg  him,  on  her  knees,  if  necessary,  to 
come  with  her  to  George's  office  and  reveal  all.  To-morrow, 
Philip  Barstone,  branded  and  an  outcast,  should  leave  Golden 
Willows  forever. 

The  new  day— the  **  to-morrow  "  that  was  to  save  her  and 
them  all — was  grown  gray  in  the  eastern  sky  as  slie  lay  there 
and  thought.  She  dropped  asleep  at  last,  with  the  monoto- 
nous word  upon  her  lips  and  heart,  **  To-morrow,  to-morrow  T* 


CHAPTER   XXXII. 

THE     WEDDING     WEEK. 


»« 


I  WILL  see  Willie  to-day.  Before  night,  Philip  Barstono 
will  have  quitted  Golden  Willows,  to  return  no  more." 

Magdalen  descended  to  breakfast  with  the  thought  in  her 
mind.  She  looked  somewhat  haggard  with  the  past  night's 
vigil,  but  there  was  an  eager  light  in  her  eyes  that  made  her 
husband  turn  and  look  at  her  as  she  entered. 

The  others  were  there — Fanny,  in  a  voluminous  white 
wrapper  with  azure  girdle,  and  fluttering  blue  ribbons  in  her 
hair,  very  fresh  and  bright,  and  almost  pretty;  Mr.  Tomp- 
kins, Philip,  and  George;  and  the  instant  Magdalen  had  taken 
her  place  at  the  head  of  the  table.  Miss  Winters  opened  the 
day's  campaign  briskly. 

**  Magdalen,  1  want  you  to  come  with  me  to  Milford  to-day, 
and  help  me  decide  among  some  lovely  shades  of  silk  they 
have  down  in  Bentley's.  Quiet  shades,  you  know — pearl  gray, 
mouse  color,  ashes  of  roses,  and  steel.  I  shall  have  a  travel- 
ing-suit of  one  of  them,  and  I  can't  make  up  my  mind  which. 
And  then  we  must  visit  the  greenhouse  and  order  a  supply  of 
nabaral  flowers  for — for  " — with  a  maidenly  droop  of  the  eye- 
lids— **  Thursday  evening." 

Magdalen  assented,  of  coarse;  not  best  pleased,  however. 


/ 


I.IJ 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


251 


U 


It;  jarred  hor  horribly,  this  lending  herself  to  and  oounteDano- 
ing  the  preparations  for  a  wedding  that  would  never  take 
place.     But  just  at  present  it  was  not  to  ho  avoided. 

Philip,  looking  askance  at  the  pale,  grave  face  of  his  cous- 
in's wife,  thought  it  boded  well  for  him,  this  culm  quiescence. 
Whatever  she  knew,  she  was  not  going  to  expose  him,  surely, 
or  she  would  never  aid  and  abet  Fanny  in  preparing  for  her 
marriage  with  him.  If  she  meant  to  speak  at  all,  she  would 
surely  have  spoken  ere  matters  went  thus  far. 

His  spirits  were  unusually  high  as  he  drove  them  into  Mil- 
ford.  He  strove  assiduously  to  make  himself  agreeable  to 
Mrs.  Barstone,  in  no  pointed  or  officious  way,  but  still  mark- 
edly. 

Magdalen's  brows  had  contracted  angrily  when  she  found 
who  was  to  be  their  escort;  but  she  had  accepted  the  situation 
in  silence. 

They  reached  Milford  ?:^  the  town  clocks  were  chiming 
eleven,  and  drove  to  Bentley's  emporium.  And  here,  amid 
pearl-gray  and  mouse-color  silks.  Miss  Winters  managed  to 
pass  two  mortal  hours  comparing  shades,  selecting  trimmings, 
etc.  Then  they  visited  a  ladies'  saloon  and  had  luncheon. 
Miss  Winters  declaring  herself  fit  to  drop  from  exhaustion; 
then  to  the  greenhouse  to  order  flowers  wherewith  to  decorate 
the  house  on  the  bridal-night;  then  to  sundry  milliners  and 
dress-makers,  all  at  work  for  the  heiress;  and  then  it  was  five 
o'clock,  and  high  time  to  return  home. 

There  had  been  no  possibility  of  escape  for  Magdalen. 
Philip  had  never  quitted  them;  and,  unless  she  told  a  deliber- 
ate falsehood  invented  for  the  occasion,  she  could  not  have 
broken  away. 

A  deliberate  falsehood  Magdalen  was  incapable  of.  Fate 
had  ruled  it,  and,  in  an  inward  fever  of  intolerable  anxiety, 
she  was  forced  to  return,  nothing  accomplished  despite  all  her 
resolves.  ( 

Another  day  gone.  But  two  now  until  the  fatal  wedding- 
day.  What  if,  after  all,  it  were  written — if  it  were  too  late 
—  if  her  wicked  vow  of.  vengeance  were  wreaking  its  own  retri- 
bution, and  if  she  mutt  perish  with  the  man  she  had  sworn  to 
destroy? 

She  came  down  looking  so  worn  and  white  on  Tuesday 
morning  that  all  George's  fears  for  her  health  were  renewed. 
The  business  of  yesterday  had  been  too  much  for  her;  she  was 
still  weak  from  recent  illness;  Fanny  must  find  some  one  else 
to  decide  upon  her  grays  and  her  mouse  colors;  Magdalea 
most  remain  quiet,  and  not  worry  herself  over  the  wSddiDg 


252 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


preparations  in  any  way,  or  they  would  have  her  laid  up  on 
their  hands  bgain. 

After  which  exordium  George  kissed  his  wife  and  departed, 
whistling  hriskly.  He,  like  Aunt  Lydia,  had  just  beoome 
reconciled  to  the  marriage,  though  he  had  been  hugely  indig- 
nant at  first,  and  had  uiulei'takon  to  remonstrate  with  Phil. 

**  You  go  fast,  my  friend,''  he  said.  '*  Your  game  is  a 
little  too  palpable  this  time.  Wliy  didn't  you  permit  Fanny 
to  enjoy  her  fortune  one  month  at  least  before  proposing  to' 
take  it  from  her?  You  are  marrying  the  sixty  thousand  dol- 
tars,  of  course,  and  you  care  as  much  for  Fan  as  I  do  for  yon- 
der crow  sailing  over  the  tree-tops.  The  poor  child's  fate  ia 
likely  to  be  a  happy  one!" 

**  My  dear  George,"  his  cousin  retorted,  with  the  drawl  he 
always  assumed  when  about  to  say  something  unusually  im- 
pertinent, "  you  are  two  or  three  years  my  senior,  and  you  are 
a  married  man;  but  for  all  that,  the  character  of  mentor  is 
not  the  r61e  a  beneficent  Providence  ever  intended  you  to  play. 
T  marry  Fanny  because  she  has  inherited  sixty  thousand  dol- 
lars, if  you  like,  and  Pm  not  what  sentimental  people  call  in 
love,  I  dare  say — indeed,  that  amiable  weakness  always  was 
more  of  a  failure  of  yours  than  of  mine.  You  and  your  wife 
married  for  love,  didn't  you?  Well,  of  course  poor  Fanny 
and  I  need  not  look  forward  to  such  perfect  happiness  and 
confidence  as  you  and  Magdalen  enjoy.  It  would  be  too 
much  to  expect.  But  in  a  humdrum  and  unromantic  way — 
with  no  mysterious  poor  relations  in  the  background — I  have 
no  doubt  we  will  jog  on  together  contentedly  enough." 

And  Philip  looked  his  legal  cousin  full  in  the  eyes,  with  a 
smile  of  insolent  meaning. 

George  winced  under  his  well-aimed  blow,  as  Phil  sauntered 
ofl  humming  a  tune.  And  Mr.  Barstone,  the  elder,  inter- 
fered in  other  people's  concerns  no  more. 

Fanny  had  to  visit  Milford  again  that  morning.  It  was  to 
be  her  last  visit  before  becoming  invisible  until  Thursday 
night,  and  she  took  her  slave  and  adorer  with  her. 

The  house  was  very  still;  Aunt  Lydia  was  breakfasting  in 
her  room;  Mr.  Tompkins  was  writing  in  his;  the  way  to  Mil- 
ford  and  Willie  was  an  easy  way  enough  to-day. 

As  ten  struck,  closely  veiled,  and  wearing  a  water-proof 
mantle,  Magdalen  left  the  cottage  and  set  out  on  foot  for  the 
town. 

The  April  morning  was  gray  and  overcast,  with  a  fitful 
wind  and  a  lowering  sky.  Magdalen  hurried  along,  feeling 
no  latigue,  and  reached  the  shabby  boarding-house  befora 


k '  ^ 


Mi.GDALEN'8    VOW. 


253 


/ 


J  I 


] 


noon.  She  was  shown  upstairs,  and  found  Caroline  alone, 
sitting  forlornly  by  the  window.  She  rose,  turning  very  pale 
at  sight  of  hor  unoxpeotod  visitor. 

**  Don't  bo  alarmed,  Mrs.  Heed,"  Magdalen  said.  **  1  only 
camo  to  see  my  brother.     Whore  is  he?'' 

**  Out  for  the  day.  IIo  said  last  night  he  was  growing  as 
nervous  as  a  hysterical  girl  from  being  cooped  up  liere,  and 
before  day-broalc  this  morning  was  olf  for  a  day's  ramble 
through  the  country,  lie  will  not  be  back  until  after  night- 
fall." 
Magdalen  sunk  into  a  chair. 

Fato,  then,  luas  against  her;  another  day  must  go,  and  every 
instant  was  unspeakably  precious  now. 

**  1 7nusl  see  him!"  she  cried.  **  I  must  see  him  to-nightl 
Tell  him  to  come  to  Crolden  Willows — yes,  Mrs.  Reed,  he 
must  come — toll  him  to  be  in  the  Willow  Walk,  if  possible, 
by  ten  to-night.     Tell  him  from  me  to  be  there  without  fail." 

**  I  will  tell  him.     Mrs.  Barstone,  has  anything  occurred?" 

**  Nothing  has  occurred.  The  wedding  is  fixed  for  Thurs- 
day night.  I  must  not  linger  now.  The  moment  Willie  re- 
turns send  him  direct  to  Golden  Willows,  whether  the  night 
be  stormy  or  not. " 

She  hastened  away  for  her  weary,  homeward  walk.  "Would 
Fanny  and  Philip  be  homo  before  her?  she  wondered.  Yes; 
as  she  opened  the  outer  gate,  the  first  object  she  beheld  was 
the  doctor,  smoking  his  cigar  under  the  trees. 

He  was  looking  at  her  full,  at  the  close  veil,  at  the  long 
mantle,  at  her  dusty  boots  and  dress,  and  knew,  as  well  as  she 
knew  herself,  that  she  had  been  to  town — to  Willie. 

She  hastened  past  him,  not  pausing  to  glance  his  way,  and 
appeared  no  more  until  dinner. 

There  was  a  dinner-party  this  Tuesday  evening  at  Golden 
Willows— Fanny's  bride-maids  were  all  there,  and  two  or  three 
of  George's  most  intimate  friends.  Magdalen,  in  pale-green 
tissue  and  fleecy  tulle  and  lace,  with  one  real  white  rose  in 
her  golden  hair,  and  a  faint  flush  born  of  inward  lever  oa 
either  cheek,  looked  beautiful.  For  Fanny,  she  was  rustling 
in  a  trailing  robe  of  dove-colored  silk,  with  jeweled  violets 
wreathing  her  hair  and  curled  elaborately  to  her  waist. 

The  cloudy  morning  had  ended  in  a  night  of  fine,  drizzling 
rain  and  raw,  easterly  winds.  Magdalen,  forced  to  smile  and 
talk  to  their  guests,  sat  with  a  fire  in  her  veins,  her  temples 
throbbing,  her  pulses  at  fever-heat.  Yonder  sat  Fanny,  radi- 
ant in  smiles^  and  happiness,  and  full  dress^  beside  Philip  Bar- 


254 


MAGDALEN  S    VOW. 


stoae.  Great  Heaven!  what  a  farce,  a  mockery  it  all  was! 
and  what  a  cheat,  an  impostor  she  felt  herself  to  be! 

They  were  all  yoang  people,  and  after  dinner  in  the  draw- 
ing-room there  was  a  c.-irpet-dai'.co.  Magdalen  declined  danc- 
ing on  account  of  her  recent  illness;  she  played  a  waltz  and  a 
cotillon  for  the  others;  then,  professing  fatigue,  she  resigned 
her  place  at  the  piano  to  Ella  Goldham,  and  waited  while 
they  formed  a  quadrille — George,  Philip,  Fanny,  and  all  who 
were  likely  to  miss  her,  were  standing  up  to  dance.  It  was 
already  a  quarter  past  ten;  with  the  first  note  of  the  lancers 
she  glided  from  tlib  drawing-room,  threv/  a  shawl  over  her 
head,  opened  the  hall  door,  and  disappeared  in  the  wet  dark- 
ness. 

The  rainy  night  was  pitch-black,  the  brightly  lighted  front 
windows  alone  casting  a  fitful  light  athwart  the  gloom.  She 
gathered  up  her  flowing  silken  drapery,  and,  heedless  oFthe 
thin  shoes  she  wore,  made  her  way  over  wet  grass  and  gravel 
to  the  ^  illow  Walk. 

Deepest  darkness  was  there.  She  paused  at  the  entrance^ 
and  softly  called :  .       - 

**  Willie!'* 

**  All  right!"  a  boyish  voice  answered.  **  Here  I  am." 
And  a  figure  stepped  from  under  the  trees — a  figure  she  could 
but  dimly  see.  *'  Tve  been  waiting  a  full  half  hour.  What's 
gone  wrong,  Magdalen?" 

'*  Nothing  has  gone  wrong.  Do  you  know  I  have  been  very 
ill  since  I — since  that  night,  Willie?" 

**  Since  the  night  you  tried  to  drown  yourself,"  Willie  said, 
sardonically.  *'  Yes,  I  know  it,  and  precious  frightened  I 
was,  I  can  tell  you.  What  fools  you  women  are!  going  to 
drown  yourself  because  you  thought  your  husband  was  a 
villain,  and  falling  into  a  brain  fever  because  you  discovered 
he  wasn't!  11  nothing's  the  matter  now,  what  did  you 
frighten  Caroline  ir^tj  fits  for  by  coming  to  Freeman's  to-day 
and  ordering  me  up  here  such  beastly  weather  as  this?" 

**  Because,  Willie,  you  must  speak  to-night — yes,  this  very 
hour!  I  can  keep  the  secret  of  Philip  Barstone's  guilt  no 
longer.  You  must  see  George  and  tell  him  all  to-night — all 
—all!" 

She  laid  her  cold  hand  on  his  arm — she  raised  her  pale,  im- 
ploring face  to  his  in  the  darkness.  Willie  shook  her  roughly 
oft,  his  eyes  flashing  angrily. 

**  1  thought  bo!"  he  said.  **  More  of  your  feminine  fool- 
ery and  fickleness!  Good  Lord!  what  inconsistent  idiots  yoa 
ar^I    Oqq  hoar  vowing  eternal  venge&nce— the  iiezt^  whun- 


ifAGDALEKT^S    VOW. 


$55 


1 


pering  and  begging  mercy  for  your  Tictims!  The  man's  a 
fool  who  trusts  the  best  of  you." 

**  I  don't  ask  mercy  for  him,  Willie!"  Magdalen  cried,  in 
a  Toice  of  suppressed  intensity.  **  Expose  him— drive  him 
from  this  house — I  ask  nothing  better.  It  is  mercy  for 
George,  for  Fanny,  for  myself,  I  ask.  Oh,  Willie  I  think  of 
the  shame,  the  eternal  disgrace,  the  public  exposure  you 
threaten  to  bring!  Think  of  that  poor  girl's  broken  heartl 
Think  how  otir  history  will  be  dragged  oyer  the  land!  Think 
how.  they  will  hate  and  despise  me,  who  have  plotted  in  secret 
to  bring  about  this  disgrace!  I  do  not  ask  you  to  spare  the 
guilty,  but  the  innocent,  the  public  exposure.  Tell  all  to- 
night, and  let  him  be  banished  from  this  house,  with  loss  of 
name,  home,  friends,  fortune,  wife.  Surely,  that  is  punish- 
ment enough?" 

*'  Not  half  punishment  enough.  I  tell  you  no,  Magdalen- 
no,  no,  no! — not  if  you  went  down  on  your  knees  and  begged 
for  it!  Punishment,  indeed!  Banish  him  from  this  house, 
and  how  much  worse  off  will  he  be  than  before?  He  has  his 
New  York  home  and  his  profession;  and  by  and  by  you  will 
hear  of  his  marriage  to  some  other  fortune.  Will  that  avenge 
Laura,  Caroline,  myself?  Are  we  all  to  suffer  in  silence  be- 
cause, forsooth,  his  relations  will  be  mortified  by  his  crimes 
being  made  known?  He  is  the  murderer  of  your  father  and 
sister;  through  him  my  life  is  ruined,  my  character  blasted; 
and  you  stand  there,  selfish  to  the  core,  afraid  to  lose  your 
respectable  husband  and  your  respectable  home,  and  plead  for 
the  villain!  Spare  him  for  Fanny's  sake,  indeed!  What  is 
Fanny,  or  a  million  Fannies  to  me— to  you,  either,  who  only 
cloak  your  own  selfishness  by  her  name?  Your  husband  will 
despise  and  cast  you  off,  will  he?  Let  him!  Laura  was  worth 
a  dozen  of  you,  and  this  precious  husband's  cousin  cast  her 
off  without  much  compunction.  And  you  knelt  by  her  grave 
and  vowed  vengeance,  did  you?  1  wonder  her  unavenged 
spirit  does  not  rise  from  that  £";rave  to  pursue  you — spiritless, 
abject  coward  that  you  are.  I  tell  you,  no,  Magdalen  Bar- 
stone~no!  and  again  and  agaiii,  ^o!  If  an  angel  came  down 
from  yonder  sky  with  the  same  prayer,  1  would  spurn  her — 
as  I  do  you.  And  my  curse  upon  you  if  after  this  you  take 
the  matter  in  your  own  hands  and  betray  me!" 

She  staggered  back,  htr  last  hope  gone,  appalled  by  the 
passions  she  had  aroused.    He  strode  past  her  out  of  the  walk. 

**  You  had  better  go  in  the  house,  and  not  stand  there  in 
the  rain  to  get  your  death.  And  send  for  me  on  no  more 
fools'  errands.     On  Thursday  night,  when  the  wedding-guesta 


■ma  niUiMioMiiiKeMgiaiMJijaiBMME 


lyV.ipBpPiiii/^Pjt'ffliS 


956 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


are  assembled,  and  tKey  stand  before  the  minister,  Caroline 
and  1  will  be  there  to  denounce  him.  And  if  you  forestall 
me,  it  had  been  better  for  you  you  never  were  born!" 

He  strode  away.  She  heard  the  crash  of  his  footsteps  on 
the  wet  gravel,  the  opening  and  shutting  of  the  gate,  and^  then 
she  knew  the  rain  was  falling  heavily  upon  her,  and  that  her 
lest  were  soaking  through.  Mechanically  she  turned  and 
walked  back  to  the  house. 

She  had  been  gone  some  twenty  minutes — the  quadrille  was 
almost  finished  when  she  re-entered  the  drawing-room.  The 
shawl  she  had  worn  had  saved  her  from  the  rain — she  left  it 
outside  and  went  in.  Her  thin-soled  slippers  were  wet 
through,  but  she  never  heeded  her  cold  feet.  She  stood, 
shivering  slightly,  in  the  warmth  and  light  of  the  room. 
To-morrow  was  Wednesday,  the  next  Thursday,  and  then, 
**  after  that  the  deluge!"  She  could  get  no  further — dark- 
ness lay  all  beyond. 

Her  absence  and  return  had  not  been  unnoticed.  The  eyes 
of  love  are  keen;  but  George  went  conscientiously  through 
his  steps  and  saw  nothing.  It  was  the  keener  eyes  of  fear. 
Philip  saw  her  glide  away,  and  all  through  the  dance,  while  ho 
wore  that  inscrutable  face,  he  was  possessed  of  a  haunting  ter- 
ror. Had  she  gone  to  meet  her  brother?  Were  they  plotting 
his  final  ruin  even  at  that  moment?  Every  interest  of  his 
life  was  at  stake,  and  he  must  move  through  this  abominable 
dance,  and  simper  and  bow,  and  at  its  conclusion  those  two 
might  enter  and  brand  him  before  all  present  as  the  scoundrel 
he  knew  himself  to  be. 

He  saw  her  re-enter  alone.  The  instant  the  quadrille  fin- 
ished, George  was  by  her  side,  wiping  his  flashed  face.  Danc- 
ing was  not  a  business  in  which  the  Milford  barrister  shone. 

"  Warm  work,  my  dear,''  he  said.  "  I'd  rather  walk  to 
town  and  back  than  dance  one  quadrille.  You  are  looking 
pale  to-night,  Magdalen — you  are  always  pale  of  late,  but  you 
are  quite  ill-looking  now.  When  1  say  ill-looking,  my  love, 
of  course  you  know  what  I  mean." 

She  strove  to  smile  as  she  made  place  for  him  beside  her. 

**  1  am  not  ill — a  little  chilly,  somehow — that  is  all.  They 
are  going  to  dance  again.  George,  I  think  I  will  go  up  and 
see  if  Aunt  L3'dia  is  asleep.  None  of  ns  have  been  m  her 
room  this  evening." 

**  Very  well,  my  dear;  only  don't  stay  too  long,  even  if  she 
should  be  awake.  The  room  is  empty,  Mr.  Barstone  added, 
gallantly,  **  when  the  prettiest  woman  present  leaves  it" 

Magd^en  v  nt  up  to  Miss  Barstone's  apartment,  ioond 


ilAGDALEN't;    VOW. 


^7 


il 


Miss  r^arstone  still  aveake,  listeniDg  to  the  distaut  «ound  of 
the  musiC;  and  remained  with  her  nearly  an  hour.  They 
were  too  gay  to  miss  her  helow-stairs,  and  that  very  gayety 
jarred  upon  her  horribly  to-^ight.  She  laid  her  head  wearily 
ou  the  bedside,  with  a  long,  heart-sick  sigh,  as  though  she 
-never  cared  to  lift  it  again. 

*'  There  i3  something  on  your  mind,  my  dear,"  Aunt  Lydia 
said,  quietly.     **  I  wish  1  could  help  you,  Magdalen.*' 

**  No  one  can  help  me,"  the  girl  said,  with  a  quiet  despair 
sadder  than  tears.  **  My  trouble  is  past  help — past  hope. 
Oh,  Aunt  Lydia,  if  we  could  only  make  our  own  lives,  what 
happy  creatures  we  should  be!  But  our  lives  are  What  others 
ifiake  them.  We  are  but  puppet?  in  the  hands  of  inexorable 
Fate,  and  all  oui  struggles  are  but  fruitless.  Some  day — ah, 
very  soon  now! — you  will  hate  me,  and  wish  you  had  never 
seen  my  face;  and  yet — and  yet  I  don't  see  how  I  could  have 
helped  being  what  I  am." 

**  What  you  are?  My  dear  Magdalen,"  inexpressibly 
startled,  **  what  do  you  mean?" 

'*  I  can  not  tell  you.  Dear  friend — best  friena — I  am  far 
beyond  any  help  of  yours.  My  own  hand — my  own  wicked 
and  unwomanly  act — first  raised  a  barrier  between  myself  and 
the  rest  of  the  world;  and  now  another  and  stronger  hand 
than  mine  renders  that  barrier  insurmountable.  Do  not  ask 
me  any  questions;  the  time  when  you  will  know  all — all  '*— 
with  a  choking  sob — **  is  very  near.  Love  me,  if  you  can, 
until  that  time  comes,  and  I  go  forth  into  the  outer  darkness, 
where  such  wretches  as  I  belong." 

Aunt  Lydia  looked  at  her.  The  golden  head  lay  against 
the  bed;  the  youthful  face  was  white,  and  worn,  and  haggard 
in  the  lamp-light.  More  than  one  of  Phil's  hints  came  vividly 
back  to  her.     Was  Geoi'ge's  wife  indeed  going  mad?  : 

**  I  will  ask  you  no  questions,  my  dear;  but  if  you  have 
any  troubla  on  your  mind,  why  do  you  not  go  to  George — to 
your  husband?  He  loves  you  so  dearly,  my  child,  that  I 
think  if  you  had  even  committed  a  crime  he  would  forgive 
you,  and  love  you  all  the  more  for  having  something  to  for- 
give. You  are  very  dear  to  us  all,  Magdalen,  and  it  pains  me 
more  than  1  can  say  to  see  you  like  this.  My  daughter,  go 
to  your  husband — where  else  should  a  wife  go?  Tell  him  all, 
whatever  your  trouble  may  be,  and  believe  me,  he  wiii  not 
love  or  cherish  you  less. " 

Magdalen  sighed. 

**  He  will  know  all  soon— soon —this  very  weak.  But  ht 
will  not  forgive  me — it  is  tya&t  thaL**  — 


ttlkBhUSl£MMUa« 


258 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


And  ihen  silence  fell,  and  the  moments  went  by.  Mag- 
dalen had  fallen  into  a  trance  from  which  Aunt  Lydia's  gentle 
voice  aroused  her. 

'*  It's  half  past  eleven,  my  dear.  Your  friends  will  be  going 
presently,  and  will  wonder  if  you  are  not  there  to  bid  them 
good-night.     Kiss  me,  and  go  down. " 

Magdalen  bent  over  the  worn,  tranquil  face,  beautiful  in  its 
patient  suffering,  and  then  hurriedly  descended  the  stairs* 
The  bustle  of  cloaking  was  going  on — the  guests  were  dispers- 
ing. Again  Philip  Barstone  was  the  first  person  she  encount- 
ered— again  had  he  been  on  the  watch.  What  had  his  life 
been  lately  but  one  prolonged  and  anxious  watch?  Was  this 
night,  too,  to  pass  in  safety  for  him?  Yes;  the  good-nights 
were  said — Fanny  was  leanihg  out  into  the  rainy  darkness  to 
watch  the  last  carriage  away,  and  George's  wife  had  her  night- 
lamp  in  her  hand,  and  was  already  on  her  way  to  her  own 
rooms,  and  nothing  had  been  said.  But  one  day  more  to  in- 
tervene between  him  and  his  wedding-day,  and  Le  was  still 
safe. 

"  I  wish  I  had  insisted  upon  the  ceremony  taking  place 
early  on  Thursday  morning,  at  Milford,  in  church,  he 
thought,  as  he  sat  in  his  own  room,  '*  and  departed  immedi- 
ately after.  Every  hour  spent  in  this  place  is  an  hour  of  pro- 
longed torture. " 

But  the  bride  had  ruled  it  otherwise.  The  marriage  was  to 
take  place  on  Thursday  night  at  ten,  in  the  drawing-room, 
and  to  be  followed  by  an  old-fashioned  wedding-party. 
Fanny,  a  great  stickler  for  fashion  on  other  occasions,  was  de- 
ttrmined  on  this  to  be  a  heroine  as  long  as  possible,  and  dis- 
play her  lovely  wedding-dress  for  the  last  time  in  Milford. 

Wednesday  dawned,  still  wet  and  gloomy,  filling  Miss  Win- 
ters with  apprehensions  for  the  morrow. 

**  I  wouldn't,  for  countless  worlds,"  that  young  lady  said 
at  breakfast,  *'  be  married  upon  a  wet  day!  One's  life  is  sure 
to  be-like  their  wedding-day;  so  you  can  see  what  prospect  of 
happiness  one  would  have,  married  on  a  miserable,  sloppy, 
soaking  day  like  this." 

"  Then,  if  it  rains,"  observed  George,  **  you'll  postpone 
the  nuptials.  Were  you  aware  of  the  interesting  fact  in 
natural  history  of  which  Fanny  has  just  spoken,  before, 
Tompkins?" 

Fanny  shook  her  head. 

**  Postpone  the  marriage?  No,  George;  bad  as  a  wet  day 
may  be,  a  postponed  marriage  is  worse.  Yotirs  was  post- 
poned, by  the  way— don't  you  remember?" 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


250 


u 


tl 


i 


An  awkward  silence  fell.  Philip  looked  maliciously  at 
Magdalen^  Tompkins  looked  steadfastly  at  his  plate,  and 
George  reddened. 

**  If  the  weather  is  to  be  emblematic  of  our  wedded  happi- 
ness, my  dear  Fanny,"  Philip  said,  **  you  may  take  my  word 
for  it  the  day  will  be  without  precedent  in  the  way  of  fineness. 
George,  L  shall  walk  in  with  you  to  Milford  this  morning. 
The  house  will  be  in  such  a  state  of  bridal  preparations  for 
to-day  and  to-morrow  as  to  be  intolerable." 

The  bridal  preparations  were,  indeed,  at  their  height.  The 
bride's  trousseau  had  arrived  from  New  York,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  the  wedding-dress  and  veil,  expected  by  this  evening's 
train.  The  bridal  presents  were  many  and  handsome,  and 
were  to  be  displayed  in  all  their  splendor  on  Thursday  night; 
the  traveling-trunks  stood  upstairs,  ready  to  be  packed;  the 
handsome  traveling-suit  was  in  active  completion  in  Milford. 

There  were  two  seamstresses  still  at  work  in  the  house- 
judging  by  the  amount  of  needle-work  Fanny  was  having  done, 
her  whole  future  life  was  to  be  one  prolonged  Sunday,  and  the 
dry-goods  stores  closed — and  the  rooms  were  to  be  decorated, 
and  the  fitting-on  process  undergone  at  least  half  a  dozen 
times  before  night. 

A  restless  demon  seemed  to  possess  Philip  Barstone  from 
this  morning — a  walking  familiar  that  gave  him  no  respite. 
He  walked  into  Milford  with  George,  dawdled  away  an  hour 
or  two  through  the  town,  visiting  more  than  once  that  dull 
little  back  street  where  Mrs.  Freeman  kept  her  shabby  board- 
ing-house. Then,  all  at  once,  a  fever  of  impatience  to  see 
what  Magdalen  was  about  seized  him,  and  he  hurried  back  to 
the  cottage  so  rapidly  that  the  perspiration  stood  in  beads  on 
his  face. 

She  was  doing  nothing.  He  found  her  sitting  by  one  of  the 
windows,  a  book  in  her  hand,  but  not  reading — looking; 
blankly  out  at  the  gray,  dull  day. 

**  I  never  thought  she  could  be  so  selfish  and  so  unkind!" 
Fanny  cried,  when  her  lover  joined  her.  *'  She  won't  do  the 
least  thing.  Her  taste  in  decorating  a  room  is  not  to  be  sur- 
passed, but  to-day  she  will  not  even  oiler  a  suggestion.  She 
says  her  head  aches.  I  don't  believe  it — it's  downright  ugli- 
ness, and  nothing  else!" 

Miss  Winters  had  very  little  time  even  to  talk  to  Philip — a 
summons  from  one  of  the  seamstresses  took  her  away  even 
while  she  spoke. 

He  quitted  the  house  again  and  joined  Mr.  Tompkincf^ 
smoking  a  placid  p/pe  under  the  dripping  trees. 


mo 


MAGDALElj'S    VOW. 


*'  Better  is  a  thorough  dreoching  and  peace  than  a  luxuri- 
ous apartment  and  general  topsy-turviness,"  the  author  re- 
marked. *'  I  couldn't  stand  so  much  sweeping,  dusting,  and 
decorating,  so  1  have  sought  refuge  here.  Mrs.  Barstone  is 
the  only  Si^nsible  female  in  the  house;  she  takes  things  quietly 
and  does  nothing.'* 

**  Mrs.  Barstone  is  rather  a  remarkable  young  woman," 
said  the  doctor.     **  I  don't  pretend  to  understand  her." 

**  She  appears  a  victim  to  green-and-yellow  melancholy, 
doesn't  she?"  said  Mr.  Tompkins,  with  a  side  glance  at  his 
companion.  **  Is  it  chronic  low  spirits,  or  liver  complaint, 
or  a  mysterious  secret  horror?" 

*'  Chronic  sulkiness,  I  should  say,"  answered  Dr.  Phil. 
**  She  has  been  like  that  ever  since  I  met  her  first.  Defend 
me  from  clever  women,  with  a  soul  above  millinery,  and  the 
temper  of  the  devil." 

A  summons  to  luncheon  recalled  the  two  gentlemen — a 
meal  at  which  Mrs.  George  did  not  appear. 

Magdalen's  headache  was  worse,  Fanny  said,  and  she  had 
gone  to  lie  down.  If  people  mifst  have  headaches.  Miss  Win- 
ters added,  with  a  sniff  that  told  she  had  no  belief  in  the  ail- 
ment, they  might  select  more  convenient  seasons  than  bridal 
eves.  But  it  was  interesting  to  be  an  invalid,  she  supposed, 
and  some  people  liked  to  make  themselves  interesting. 

Philip's  walking  familiar  took  possession  of  him  again,  the 
repast  concluded,  but  he  seemed  to  have  no  power  to  go  be- 
yond sight  of  the  house.  He  smoked  furiously;  he  wandered 
about  the  grounds,  down  to  the  lake,  along  the  Milford  Road, 
and  then  back  in  hot  haste  again. 

Would  the  day  never  end?  he  wondered.  Never  had  hours 
lagged  as  those  lagged.  It  seemed  a  week  at  least  since 
breakfast-time  that  morning.  Would  this  day  and  night  pass, 
too,  and  nothing  happen? 

Yes.  Evening  fell— still,  dark,  starless,  overcast.  George 
returned,  dinner  was  announced,  and  he  went  in. 

Would  George's  wife  appear?  he  wondered,  feverishly. 
Yes,  there  she  sat,  dressed  in  black  silk,  the  white  shoulders 
and  arms  gleaming  like  marble  against  its  lusterless  darkness; 
a  cluster  of  white  roses  on  her  breast,  and  a  spray  of  gera- 
nium leaves  in  her  bronze  hair.  The  beautiful  face  was  sot 
in  stony  calm;  a  fathomless  quiet  looked  from  the  blue  eyes. 

Beyond  a  certain  point  pain  is  its  own  anaesthetic.  She  had 
reached  that  point  now;  a  sort  of  dull  apathy  to  all  things 
had  taken  possession  of  her    She  had  battled  fiercely,  suffered 


(u 


(.K 


J 


1) 


i 


i 


MAGDALEN'S    V^W. 


261 


V' 


i 


intensely;  but  she  battled  and  suffered  no  more.  Lot  the 
worst  come;  she  was  powerless. 

She  played  and  sung  for  nearly  two  hours  in  the  drawing- 
room,  after  dinner,  no  falter  in  her  voice,  no  tremble  in  the 
supple  fingers  that  flew  over  the  keys.  And  while  she  played 
and  sung,  with  her  husband  by  her  sii^e,  she  believed  it  to  be 
the  last  night  she  would  ever  spend  under  that  roof — the  last 
night  he  would  ever  look  upon  her  with  those  loving,  trust- 
ful, tender  eyes. 

Fanny  sat  in  a  low  rocker  near  Philip's  easy-chair,  the 
lamp-light  falling  on  her  pretty  evening-dress,  her  loose 
brown  hair  and  happy  face.  For  once  she  was  silent;  her  joy 
was  too  great,  too  complete,  for  words. 

She  was  thinking  of  her  wedding-dress.  It  had  come  down 
from  New  York,  in  charge  of  a  first-class  female  artist,  and 
it  had  been  tried  on,  and  no  words  are  strong  enough  to 
describe  its  beauties  or  the  bride-elect's  raptures. 

It  fitted  beautifully.  It  had  a  court  train  that  swept  for 
yards  behind  her;  it  was  of  a  white  velours  silk,  with  puffings 
of  tulle,  and  flounces  and  overdress  of  duchess  lace.  There 
was  a  long  tulle  veil,  a  wreath  of  most  delicate  and  beautiful 
orange-blossoms  forming  a  coronet  in  front,  and  with  trailing 
buds,  blossoms  and  sprays  behind.  There  was  a  fan  of  pearl 
and  point  lace,  with  the  bride's  monogram  beautifully 
wrought.     It  was  all  lovely,  lovely,  lovely! 

And  the  traveling-suit  of  steel  gray,  frilled  and  panniered, 
with  its  coquettish  hat  and  veil,  its  gloves,  its  gaiters,  and 
everything  to  match,  was  perfect  also.  There  had  not  been  a 
single  misfit  from  first  to  last.  And  there  were  dinner- 
dresses,  ball-dresses,  morning-dresses,  street-dresses,  and  car- 
riage costumes,  and  each  suit  more  exquisite  and  more  ex- 
pensive than  the  other. 

**  And,"  mused  the  blissful  bride,  **  no  one  in  Milford  ever 
had  such  a  trousseau,  or  so  many  beautiful  and  costly  pres- 
ents before.  How  they  will  gaze  and  wonder  to  morrow  even- 
ing!   Oh,  I  do  hope — I  do  hope  it  may  only  be  fine!" 

She  sat,  with  downcast  eyes,  flushed  cheeks,  and  lips  half 
parted  in  a  tender,  dreamy  smile,  the  very  ideal  of  a  happy 
bride,  with  no  thought  save  of  the  man  she  was  about  to  wed, 

Fanny  was  very  fond  of  Phil,  but  just  at  present  he  was  a 
very  secondary  consideration,  in  her  mind,  to  her  new  clothes. 
And  in  this  1  don't  think  Miss  Winters  was  by  any  means  an 
exception  to  much  more  sensible  women. 

*'  That's  so  pretty,  Magdalen,"  Fanny  said,  with  a  flutter- 
ing ngh,  as  Magdalen  finished  some  plaintive  little  oouf^ 


263 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


'*  Doesn't  this  remind  you  of  the  night  before  you  were  mar- 
ried, when  Geor;  ' ,  you,  me,  and  Ai  ^-  T  'a  mt  silent  and 
sort  of  dismal,  like  this?  Di  you  ivuiiribcr  the  aong  you 
sung  that  night — *  Forever  and  F'  re  >  1  like  that  song; 

it  always  makes  me  feel  so  delightfully  nA<}iant'-  ly,  and  brings 
thoughts  of  graves,  and  dead  people,  and  that.  Sing  it, 
please." 

**  A  suitable  song  on  the  occasion  of  a  wedding,  1  should 
say,"  Philip  said,  with  a  laugh.  "  Does  not  the  thought  of 
to-morrow  make  you  melancholy  enough,  Fanny,  without  any 
external  aid?  Let  us  have  your  melancholy  song,  by  all 
means,  Mrs.  Barstone.'-* 

Magdalen  sung  it  as  she  had  sung  the  rest,  without  hesita- 
tion or  falter.  As  he  listened  there  rose  up  before  Philip  Bar- 
stone,  with  horrible  vividness,  two  graves,  green  ^ow  with  the 
spring  grass  and  the  "blossoming  clover" — tho  graves  of 
Laura  AH  ward  and  Caroline  Reed. 

"  I  note  the  flow  of  the  weary  years, 

Like  the  flow  of  this  flowing  river; 
But  dead  in  my  heart  are  its  hopes  and  fears, 

Forever  and  forever  I 
For  never  a  light  in  the  distance  gleams; 

No  eye  looks  out  for  the  rover; 
Oh,  sweet  be  your  sleep,  love,  sweet  be  your  dreams. 

Under  th«^  blossoming  clover — 

The  sweet-scented,  bee-haunted  clover  1" 

There  was  always  a  weird  pathos  in  this  song  as  Magdalen 
sung  it.  Her  thoughts,  too,  were  with  Laura  in  her  nameless 
grave. 

Philip  Barstone  rose  up  abruptly  and  walked  out  of  the 
room  as  she  left  the  piano.  He  did  not  care  to  meet  the  gaze 
of  those  blue  eyes  just  then.  He  went  out  into  the  hall  and 
stood  looking  absently  through  the  side  lights  at  the  night, 
and  whistling  softly.  He  stood  there  so  long  that  Fanny 
joined  him  presently. 

'*  What  are  you  do'ng  here?"  the  bride-elect  demanded. 
**  Looking  at  the  weather?    And  what's  the  weather  like?" 

Philip  put  his  arm  around  her  waist  and  drew  her  to  him. 
•y     **  The  weather  will    be  all  that  can  be  desired,   Fanny. 
Look  yonder — the  clouds  are  breaking  and  the  stars  are  com- 
ing out.     Let  us  tuke  it  as  a  good  omen.     What!  Mrs.  Bar- 
stone  retiring  so  soon,  and  not  yet  eleven  o'clock." 

Magdalen,  lamp  in  hand,  had  appeared  on  the  threshold, 
and  saw  that  tableau.  He  rarely  addressed  her^  but  he  did  so 
boldly  now^  holding  Fanny  still 


-;< 


MAGDAIi-JS'8    VOW. 


2(J3 


If  she  had  fi^y  sinister  deeigns  against  him,  what  more 
likely  oo  move  her,  he  thought,  thun  seeing  her  so? 

"Eleven  o'clock  is  my  usual  hour.  My  departure  need 
hasten  no  one  else.     Goocf-night,  Fanny." 

She  spoke  with  marked  coldness;  she  did  not  bid  him  good- 
night. She  had  looked  him  fidl  in  the  face  for  one  instant, 
with  a  glance  of  merciless  contempt,  then  passed  .  r'^d  dis- 
appeared. 

"  How  implacable  she  is — how  she  does  hatv  "cu.  r,o  be 
sure!"  Fanny  said.  **  Shall  I  ever  know  what '  .  e^  /een  you 
two?" 

He  made  no  reply.  He  dropped  his  arn»  "iddenly  from 
about  her  and  turned  away. 

"  As  you  will  be  very  busy  all  day  to-morrow,  and  intend 
to  dance  all  night,  I  should  strongly  advise  you  to  follow 
Madame  Magdalen's  example.  I  am  going  to  smoke.  Good- 
night, Fan,  for  the  last  time." 

Fanny  looked  after  him  a  minute,  rather  inclined  to  resent 
this  cavalier  and  unlover-like  dismissal.  Her  habitual  good- 
nature, however,  got  the  better  of  the  momentary  irritation. 
She  took  her  night-light  off  the  tray,  peeped  in  to  say  good- 
night to  the  other  two,  and  went  upstairs.  She  turned  the 
handle  of  Magdalen's  door  and  found  it  locked. 

**  It's  me,  Magdalen — I  mean  it's  2!  Let  me  in,  please. 
George  won't  be  up  for  ever  so  long.  The  three  of  them  are 
going  to  have  a  sociable  smoke,  and  you  know  what  that 
means.  I  don't  feel  a  bit  sleepy,  and  1  want  to  come  in  and 
talk  to  you." 

But  the  door  did  not  open.  Magdalen's  voice  spoke  inside^ 
soimding  hoarse  and  strange,  the  girl  thought. 

"  Not  to-night,  Fanny,  I — I  don't  feel  inclined  to  talk  to- 
night.    Go  to  bed,  dear,  and  go  to  sleep." 

Fanny's  eyes  flashed.  How  unkind  everybody  was,  and 
she  going  away  on  Friday  morning,  never,  perhaps,  to  return. 
Magdalen  was  a  selfish,  cold-hearted  creature  who  made  every- 
body wretched  about  her — George,  Phil,  and  now  herself.  In 
spite  of  the  heavenly  bridal-robe  and  trousseau,  Miss  Winters 
went  to  bed  in  a  very  bad  temper  on  her  bridal-eve. 

The  gentlemen  did  linger  long,  as  Fanny  had  prophesied^ 
over  their  pipes.  It  was  past  one  when  Philip  Barstone  en* 
tered  his  roo^;  -for  his  last  night  there.  In  any  case,  his 
last,  wheth(  .  igs  went  ill  or  well;  whether  Friday  morning 
saw  him  in  hd^fy,  with  hia  rich  bride  beside  him,  on  the  first 
stage  of  th.  lip  to  Paris,  or  whether — he  faced  the  alternative 
unSinchingiy — he  was  blown  up  and  ejected,  toward  nighty  a8 


•'F      Ijjll" 


inf  i,.iiijin  Jiwiu^ 


364 


Magdalen's  vow. 


a  felon  and  a  Bconndrel,  from  the  hoase  that  had  been  his  boy* 
hood's  home. 

It  was  useless  to  think  of  going  to  bed;  be  could  not  sleep, 
and  he  dreaded  the  thoughts  that  came  with  darkness  and  the 

{)illow.      He   lowered   his   light,  opened    the  window   wide, 
ighted  a  cigar,  and  sat  down  to  keep  vigil  until  morning. 

The  storm  liad  cleared  entirely  away;  the  stars  shone  glori- 
ous above;  the  early  rising  moon  was  already  setting.  Was 
he,  indeed,  to  take  it  as  a  good  omen?  The  dawn  grew  gray, 
then  rosy,  in  the  east,  and  while  he  sat  there,  pale,  haggard, 
sleepless,  the  sou  rose  brilliantljr  on  Philip  Barstone's  second 
wedding-day. 


4 


CHAPTER    XXXllI. 

THE     WEDDING-NIGHT. 

Dr.  BaivSTONE  did  not  appear  at  breakfast  on  that  eventful 
Thursday  morning;  neither  did  Mrs.  George.  It  was  very 
possible  her  night  had  been  as  sleepless  as  the  bridegroom's, 
and  both  were  sleeping  the  sleep  of  exhaustion  now.  Neither 
did  Miss  Winters.  It  was  proper  for  the  bride  to  keep  her 
room,  and  the  bride  did  it.  George  and  Richard  breakfasted 
by  themselves,  and  Mr.  Tompkins  enlivened  the  meal  by  his 
agreeable  flow  of  spirits. 

"  1  presume  you  cut  the  shop  upon  this  auspicious  occasion, 
Mr.  Barstone,'*  remarked  Dick,  gravely.  **  As  the  head  of 
the  family — " 

**  As  the  head  of  the  family  I  shall  take  the  liberty  of 
attending  to  my  business,''  responded  the  Milford  barrister, 
decidedly.  "  I  have  a  very  interesting  case  in  court  to-day — 
breach  of  promise — *  Peter  V5.  Piper  — all  the  lady's  letters 
to  the  gentleman  read  aloud  yesterday — all  the  gentleman's 
letters  to  the  lady  to  be  read  to-day.  Such  letters!  I'm  for 
the  plaintiff — Miss  Arethusa  Piper— a  gentle  maiden  of  five- 
and-forty  summers.  I  wouldn't  miss  it  if  I  were  going  to  be 
married  myself,  and  I  won't  get  back  here  before  seven 
o'clock.  Perhaps  you  had  better  look  in,  in  the  course  of  the 
day.  They  won't  want  you  here,  and  you  may  get  a  wrinkle 
for  your  next  novel.     Good-morning." 

George  dashed  oft  at  a  swinging  pace — he  always  walked 
into  Milford  when  the  weather  permitted,  and  the  weather 
to-day  was  glorious.  The  sun  shone  with  the  warmth  o! 
June;  the  birds  chanted  their  morning  **  Gloria  "  all  along 
the  leafy  woods;  the  sky  was  as  blue  as  the  sky  of  Naplei, 
George  glanced  up  at  it  as  he  lighted  his  pipe. 


) 


I 


p^'wRjMjfcj^- 


WSfi» 


MAGDALEN ' 8    VOW. 


^65 


I 


W'> 


•*  Nice  weather  for  the  wedding-day,"  he  thought. 
'* '  Blessed  is  the  bride  that  the  sun  shines  on/  etc  I  won- 
der what  ails  Magdalen?  She  is  far  from  well — falling  into 
ohronio  low  spirits  and  headache.  1  must  take  her  away  for 
a  trip  somewhere.  If  1  were  an  imaginative  man,  I  might 
fancy  it  was  Phil's  approaching  marriage  that  weighed  on  nor 
mind.  It's  not,  of  course.  It's  that  confounded  scoundrel 
Langley — hang  him!" 

The  invisible  ones  made  their  appearance  in  the  'ourse  of 
the  day — Fanny,  who,  under  any  circumstances,  could  not 
confine*  herself  to  one  spot  long,  arriving  down-stairs  first, 
then  Philip,  then  Magdalen. 

It  was  past  noon  before  Magdalen  came.  Philip  and  Rich- 
ard had  sauntered  out,  and  Fanny  and  the  two  house-maids 
were  busy  as  bees  putting  the  last  touches  to  the  decorations 
of  the  rooms. 

As  usual,  Miss  Winters  had  quite  forgotten  last  night's 
little  temper,  and  was  radiant  with  good  health  and  good 
spirits. 

Magdalen  was  impressed  into  the  service  at  once,  filling 
vases  with  flowers,  arranging  furniture,  draping  curtains — no 
one's  taste  was  like  hers.  The  bride-maids  would  arrive  at 
nightfall,  the  remainder  of  the  wedding-guests  later. 

Fanny's  hair  was  up  in  a  forest  of  pins;  the  hair-dresser 
was  expected  late  in  the  afternoon  to  dress  it.  Just  at  pres- 
ent, in  the  pins  and  a  gingham  wrapper,  with  flushed  cheeks 
and  sparkling  eyes,  the  bride  was  working  energetically, 
wreathing  evergreens  and  tying  up  bouquets. 

From  the  moment  she  left  her  room  Magdalen  found  no 
time  to  think — no  time  to  pause.  Events  hurried  on  with 
breathless  rapidity.  The  hours  seemed  to  fly.  She  let  her- 
self drift  with  the  current,  and  made  no  effort  to  stem  it.  She 
arranged  the  flowers,  saw  to  the  decorations  of  the  drawing- 
room,  to  the  arrangement  of  the  dining-room,  the  placing  of 
the  silver  and  crystal,  and  the  tall  bouquets,  for  the  feast  that 
she  knew  would  never  be  eaten.  She  inspected  the  arrange- 
ment of  the  dressing-rooms — she  did  everything  it  was  her 
duty  as  mistress  of  the  house  to  do — and  all  in  a  dead, 
mechanical  sort  of  way,  without  smiling,  without  speaking. 

The  servants  in  the  house  looked  at  her  stony  face,  and 
whispered.  They  remembered  that  fixed  rigidity  of  counte- 
nance long  after. 

If  the  power  to  feel  thankful  for  anything  had  been  left 
her,  she  would  have  felt  thankful  that  George  and  Philip  were 
away.    It  was  her  last  day  at  Golden  Willowa— her  last  daj 


'if 


2fJ6 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


as  George's  wife.  She  never  for  one  second  forgot  that  during 
the  fast-flying  hours  of  that  strange  day. 

**  The  last — the  last!''  She  tnought  it  as  she  arranged 
Fanny's  bridal  presents  in  a  little  room  opening  oil  the  draw- 
ing-room— as  she  knelt  beside  hor  later,  assisting  her  to  pack 
the  vast  traveling-trunk.  **  The  last!"  And  she  was  going 
through  this  dreary  farce,  busy  with  the  last  preparations  for 
a  wedding  and  a  journey  that  would  never  be. 

Fanny's  smiling,  rosy  face  beamed  radiantly  upon  her  now, 
and  she  knew  that  in  a  few  hours  the  smiles  and  radiance 
would  be  struck  out  of  it,  perhaps  forever. 

The  sunny  April  afternoon  drew  to  a  close;  the  silvery  twi- 
light fell.  All  the  bustle  of  preparation  was  ended.  Every- 
thmg  was  in  order,  and  tho  bride  was  in  her  room  dressing. 
The  forest  of  pins  had  disappeared — the  red-brown  tresses 
\^ere  built  in  a  superb  chignon,  with  little  ringlets  down  to 
her  eyebrows,  and  long  ringlets  trailing  over  her  shoulders. 
The  two  seamstresses  and  the  smartest  of  the  house-maids 
were  arranging  the  bridal  toilet,  with  Mrs.  Barstone  by  to 
superintend — Mrs.  Barstone,  with  that  face  of  stone^  that 
unsmiling  mouth,  those  burning,  bright-blue  eyes. 

The  first  carriage  came;  Miss  Winters'  three  bride-maids 
had  arrived.  Five  minutes  after  they  had  all  fluttered  up  to 
the  bridal  bower,  all  exclamations  and  pink  tissue — the  bride's 
favorite  color — a  second  loud  ring  at  the  bell  came. 

"  Look  out,  Rosie,"  Fanny  said,  nervously,  **  and  see  [who 
it  is.    I  don't  see  what  on  earth  keeps  those  tiresome  creat- 


ures." 

'*  Those  tiresome 


creatures  "—otherwise,  her  bridegroom 
and  his  cousin  and  groomsman — were  there.  Some  haunting 
terror  had  kept  Philip  away  from  the  house  the  whole  day. 
He  had  left  Dick  in  court,  and  paid  a  visit  to  Mrs.  FreexJian's 
boarding-house — to  the  street,  rather.  But  its  dingy  front 
told  him  nothing.  Willie  Allward  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 
He  returned  to  the  court-house,  sat  out  the  trial  of  Mr.  Peter  i 
for  trifling  with  the  affections  of  Miss  Piper,  and  never  heard 
two  words  from  beginning  to  end.  The  hour  had  come. 
Would  it  pass?  and  would  Iiis  sentence  be  life  or  death? 

The  three  men  returned  to  the  house  together  as  the  moon 
rose  over  the  tree-tops,  and  flooded  earth  and  sky  with  its 
yellow  light  He  noted  all  things  with  preternatural  distinct- 
ness— the  countless  stars,  the  blue  night  sky,  the  full  white 
moon,  the  brightly  lighted  facade  of  the  house,  the  heavy  per- 
lume  of  flowers  as  he  entered,  the  hush  that  seemed  to  reign. 

A  light  supper  awaited  the  gentlemen.     Me  could  ti^te 


•-^"fW^^^ 


MAQDALEK^S    VOW. 


■ 


nothinf.  He  drank  half  a  tumbler  of  brandy,  and  went  up 
to  his  room  to  dress.  In  the  upper  hall  he  came  face  to  fac« 
with  George's  wifo;  and,  obeying  some  uncontrollable  impulse, 
he  stopped  and  looked  full  in  her  eyes. 

She  was  dressed  for  the  evening  m  a  mist-like  robe  of  white 
tulle  over  pearly  silk,  all  puliings  and  llouncing,  the  neck  and 
arms  gleaming  white,  and  fair,  and  cool  as  marble  against 
the  fleecy  softness  of  the  drapery.  He  saw  blush*roses  nestling 
in  the  foamy  lace  at  her  breast;  the  strings  of  pearls  clasping 
back  the  amber  hair;  the  marble  whiteness  of  the  face;  the 
eyes  that  looked  at  him  with  the  cold  glitter  of  sapphire 
stones.  She  had  never  looked  more  beautiful  than  to-night, 
and  she  was  dressed  for  his  wedding — for  his.  Would  she  do 
that  if  that  wedding  were  never  to  take  place?  Would  she 
stand  and  look  at  him  like  this  if  she  meant  to  denounce  him 
to-night? 

They  both  stood  still — those  mutual  enemies,  on  the  verge 
of  3  duel  to  the  death — and  looked  each  other  straight  in  the 
eyes.  It  was  but  for  three  seconds — three  hours  it  seemed  to 
Philip  Barstone.  He  tried  to  smile;  he  strove  to  make  some 
light,  apropos  remark.  The  smile  froze  on  his  lips;  the 
words  died  there  unsaid.  A  second  more,  and  she  floated  past 
him  in  her  noiseless  drapery,  and  he  stood  on  the  landing 
alone. 

The  guep^s  were  beginning  to  arrive,  early  though  it  was. 
Mrs.  BarstoL  ^  descended  to  receive  them.  She  scarcely  felt 
pain,  or  dread,  or  suspense.  A  horrible  numbness  had  seized 
her — a  dull  aj>athy.  She  was  powerless  for  good  or  for  evil. 
Her  r61e  in  this  farce,  which  had  all  the  elements  of  a  tragedy, 
must  be  played  out  quietly  to  the  end. 

It  was  ten  o'clock  when  the  wedding  was  to  tnke  place. 
George  made  his  expeditious  toilet  in  half  an  hour  and  joined 
his  wife.  The  drawing-room  was  filling  fast,  ^'he  Kev- 
erend  Mr.  Harding  had  arrived  with  his  wife  and  daughter. 
George  saw  Magdalen  standing  talking  to  him,  looking  very 
beautiful,  but  with  a  deathly  pallor  overspreading  that 
beauty — a  strange,  far-away  look  in  her  eyes.  More  than 
one  had  noticed  that  singular  look,  and  commented  upon  it 
already. 

How  white  and  rigid  Mrs.  Barstone  seemed!  How  stern 
and  unsmiling!  What  a  strange  look  she  had  in  her  eyes! 
What  was  the  matter?  .'        ^ 

People  remembered  Miss  Ella  Goldham's  party,  and  Mrs. 
Barstone's  singular  fainting  fit  upon  that  occasion.  Was 
there  something  wrong?    A  chill  j(i^  upon  the  guests.    They 


aes 


/W 


MAQDALEK'S   VOW. 


waited  breathlessly  for  something  jnusual  to  happen^  gathdb. 
ing  in  groups,  and  talking  in  mysterious  under-toues. 

George's  frank  face  and  genial  manner  thawed  the  frost  a 
little,  but  could  not  quite  dispel  it.  People  glanced  by 
stealth  at  their  watches,  and  wished  ten  o'clock  would  come. 
The  last  guest  had  arrived,  and  Mrs.  Barstone,  with  a  ter- 
rible disregard  of  the  proprieties,  had  deserted  her  guests  and 
had  taken  her  place  near  one  of  the  windows^  gazmg  stead" 
fastly  out  with  that  face  of  stone. 

Five  minutes  to  ten — ic7i !  The  Reverend  Mr.  Harding, 
book  in  hand,  had  taken  his  place.  There  was  a  breathlpss 
hush  and  flutter.  Every  one  looked  at  Mrs.  George.  Mrs. 
George  never  stirred;  she  seemed  frozen  to  her  seat.  Her 
husband  approached  and  bent  over  her  anxiously. 

**  My  dear  Magdalen,"  he  whispered,  '*do  rise  up;  they 
are  coming  in." 

She  never  stirred,  never  epoke.  Her  fixed  eyes  never  left 
the  moonlit  prospect  \(ithout.  They  were  coming,  and  Willie 
was  not  here;  they  were  entering  the  room,  and  Willie  was 
nowhere  to  be  seen.  Had  the  lives  of  all  in  the  house  de- 
ponded  on  it,  fihe  ccald  net  have  spoken — could  not  have 
uttered  one  word  to  prevent  this  marriage.  She  felt  as 
thoui^h  all  human  power  but  the  power  of  gazl'jg  blankly  out 
of  this  window  had  left  her. 

A  soft  flutter  of  women's  skirts,  a  soft  waf*"  of  perfume,  a 
iow  murmur  of  the  guests,  and  the  wedding-party  were  in  the 
room— Fanny  leaning  on  Philip's  arm,  flushed  with  deep  ex- 
citement and  expectation,  he  pale  as  death  itself.  He  glanced 
at  once  at  that  motionless  figure  by  the  winrJow.  Oh,  God! 
would  the  next  five  minutes  pass  and  nothing  happen? 

No.  At  that  very  instant  the  garden  gate  opened  swiftly, 
and  a  man  and  a  wcman  hurried,  almost  at  a  run,  up  the 
walk  to  the  house.  The  woman  was  unveiled:  no  need  a: 
disguise  now.  A  scream  almost  broke  from  Magdalen's  lips; 
her  hands  locked  convulsirely  in  her  lap.  As  the  bride  and 
bridv^groom  took  their  places,  as  the  minister  opened  his  book^ 
.a  loud  knock,  that  shook  the  door,  startled  them  all.     „ 

The  avenger  was  here! 

Philip  Barstone  turned  and  looked  v.t  Magdalen.  She  had 
arisen  from  her  seaf-,-  with  so  horror-struck,  so  ghastly  a  face, 
that  all  eyes  turned  upon  he?*.  In  that  instant  he  knew  that 
his  doom  was  sealed.  lie  sec  his  teeth  like  a  bull-dog,  and 
braced  himself  to  meet  what  was  to  conie. 

Every  one  was  standing  up.  They  were  not  to  be  disap- 
pointed—something  was  going  to  happen. 


1 


Magdalen's  vow. 


260 


. 


Mr.  Harding  closed  the  book.  A  servant  opened  the  house 
door>  and  a  man  ana  woman  came  in. 

**  Am  I  too  lato?''  the  man  demanded,  in  a  hoarse^  breath- 
less way.     **  Is  the  wedding  over?"  ^ 

The  sprvant  stared  and  fell  back.  Without  waiting  for  an 
answer  the  man  pushed  his  way  into  the  drawing-room. 
The  woman,  pale  and  trembling  in  every  limb,  sunk  on  the 
nearest  chair.  And  Philip  Barstone  saw  what  he  had  ex- 
pected to  see— the  face  of  Willie  All  ward. 

**  Am  I  too  late?'*  Willie  Allward  repeated,  loudly  and 
sternly.     **  Has  this  marriage  taken  place?" 

He  strode  in  and  addressed  the  clergyman.  Bride  and 
bride-maids  shrunk  away,  but  forgot  to  scream,  so  intense 
was  the  scene.     The  clergyman  mechanically  auawered: 

**  The  marriage  has  not  taken  place.     Who  are  you?" 

**  A  man  whom  Philip  Barstone  has  wronged  beyond 
reparation — a  man  who  comes  to  avenge  the  living  and  the 
dead — a  man  who  comes  to  forbid  this  marriage!" 

**  A  madnif  .1  who  ought  to  be  in  a  strait-jacket!"  Philip 
Barstone  broke  in,  with  a  sneer.  *'  The  moon  is  at  the  full, 
I  believe.     I  never  saw  this  lunatic  before  in  my  life." 

The  gray  hue  of  death  lay  on  his  face,  but  the  savage  blood 
within  him  was  rising  to  meet  and  brave  the  danger  he  could 
not  escape. 

**  You  lie,  Philip  Barstone,  and  you  know  it!"  his  accuser 
cried,  dauntlessly.  **  I  charge  you  with  murder  and  bigamy 
— or  attempted  bigamy!     Philip  Barstone  is  a  married  man!" 

There  was  a  gasping  cry  from  Fanny.  George  strode  for- 
ward and  confronted  the  intruder. 

**  How  dare  you  force  your  way  here,  sir,  and  raise  this 
scandalous  scene?  What  you  say  is  false.  Philip  Barstone  ia 
a  single  man — a  widower,  if  you  like,  but  a  single  mm." 

**  What  1  say  is  truel"  Wililo  answered,  unflinchingly. 
**  He  is  no  widower,  and  no  single  man.  1  can  prove  my 
words.     Mrs.  Philip  Barstone,  come  here." 

All  eyes  turned  to  the  door;  a  death-like  silence  fell;  and 
slowly,  as  if  evoked  from  the  grave,  a  woman  appeared  upon 
the  threshold — a  pale,  slender  woman,  dressed  in  black,  with 
loose,  dark  hair,  and  large,  wild,  black  eyes.  Slowly  she 
appeared  and  stcod  there  stock-still,  those  great  dark  eyes 
turning  full  upo  i  Philip  Barstone. 

A  cry  broke  the  stillness — a  man's  cry — a  dreadful,  sob- 
bing sound  of  unspeakable  horror— and  Phihp  Barstone  stag- 
gered back,  speechless,  livid,  horror-struck. 

**  Look  at  him!':  Willie  AUwaji  cried,   pointing  to  the 


mmm 


}270 


MiGDALEN*S    VOW. 


ghastly  wretch—"  look  at  him,  all  of  you,  and  see  whether  I 
speak  the  truth.  This  woman  is  his  wife — his  wife  whom, 
SIX  years  ago,  he  tried  to  murder — whom,  until  this  moment, 
he  thought  he  had  murdered — whom  he  believed  dead  and  in 
her  grave.  This  woman  is  Caroline  Barstone,  his  lawful, 
wedded  wife,  ready  and  willing  to  prove  my  words;  and  I 
accuse  him  of  the  crime  of  infanticide — of  the  murder  of  his 
own  child  I*' 

There  was  a  second  cry — this  time  the  roar  of  a  wild  beast. 
With  glaring  eyeballs,  Philip  Barstone  sprung  forward  upon 
his  merciless  accuser.  But  quicker  than  thought  Willie  drew 
a  pistol  from  his  breast-pocket,  its  sharp  click  echoing  through 
the  room. 

**  I  expected  something  like  this,  and  came  prepared. 
Stand  off,  you  murderer,  or  I'll  shoot  you  like  a  dogV' 

But  the  man  he  addressed  was  mad — mad  with  rage.  Be- 
fore the  warning  words  were  uttered  he  had  grasped  Willie  by 
the  throat  with  one  hand,  and  with  the  other  struggled  for  the 
pistol.  And  then  the  wild  shrieks  of  women  rang  shrill 
through  the  house,  and  the  men  closed  around  the  grappling 
foes;  and  then  there  was  a  stifled  exclamation  from  Philip 
Barstone,  as  he  wrenched  the  pistol  from  Willie's  grasp;  then 
a  loud  report,  a  second  mad  cry,  and  a  crash.  The  com- 
batants were  separated,  Willie  Allward  standing,  black  in  tho 
face,  and  Philip  Barstone  going  headlong  on  the  floor. 

**  Bear  witness,  all,"  Willie  cried,  '*  that  the  pistol  went  off 
in  his  own  hand.     Philip  Barstone  has  shot  himself  I" 


CHAPTER  XXXI V. 

AVENGED. 

Yes,  he  had  shot  himself.  They  bent  above  him  as  he  lay* 
one  hand  pressed  to  his  right  side,  the  pistol  lying  close  by, 
his  eyes  shut,  a  horrible  expression  of  pain,  rage,  and  terror 
on  his  face.     He  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  at  his  cousin. 

"  It's  all  up,  George — I'm  done  for.  That  fellow  has  had 
his  revenge — curse  him!" 

The  spectators  had  crowded  around,  stunned.  The  screams 
of  the  women — Fanny  loudest  of  all — echoed  now  through  tho 
house.  Only  two  among  them  never  moved  nor  spoke — Mag- 
dalen and  Caroline  Barstone. 

Even  in  that  supreme  moment,  George  looked  at  Lis  wife, 
jtnd  saw  her  sfcanduig  where  she  hud  stood  from  the  first — 
pale,  cold,  rigid.     He  turned  away  and  exclaimed : 

**  Help  me  take  him  to  his  room.     And,  Mr.  Harding,  for 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


271 


:'l  ■'' 


Heaven's  sake,  try  and  clear  the  house  of  those  people — all 
but  that  man  and  woman.  Doctor,"  to  the  old  family 
physician,  standing  gravely  by,  **  come  with  us  and  do  what 
you  can." 

They  carried  the  wounded  man — lying  with  closed  eyes, 
and  groaning  at  intervals — up  to  his  room.  With  difliculty 
his  clothing  was  removed,  and  ho  was  placed  in  bed. 

As  the  doctor  began  his  examination,  George  hastily  quit 
the  bedroom,  and  crossed  to  Aunt  Lydia's  apartment.  The 
report  of  the  pistol  and  the  women's  screams  must  have 
reached  her.     She  must  hear  the  truth,  though  it  killed  her. 

She  was  sitting  in  her  arm-chair,  ghastly,  and  straining 
every  nerve  to  listen.  As  briefly  as  possible,  her  nephew  told 
her  what  had  occurred. 

**  Whether  (he  wound  is  fatal,  or  even  very  serious,  Ixionofc 
yet  know.  As  soon  as  it  is  possible  you  shall  be  taken  to  his 
room.  In  the  meantime,  I  will  send  Fanny  to  you — poor 
child!" 

He  turned  to  go.  Miss  Barstone,  ashen  white  to  the  lips, 
laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm. 

**  And  Philip  is  the  Maurice  Langley  of  your  wife's  story?" 

**  So  it  would  seem,"  (ieorge  answered,  bitterly. 

**  And  she  has  known  this,  and  plotted  for  this  all  along?" 

**  It  appears  so.    The  man  who  caused  it  all  is  her  brother." 

His  aunt  looked  at  him — at  his  face  set  like  stone — at  his 
colorless,  compressed  lips. 

**My  poor  George!  May  God  forgive  her,  and  God  help 
you!  You  did  not  deserve  this.  Gol  I3e  merciful,  if  you 
can.  Send  Fanny  to  me.  I  will  wait  here  as  patiently  as 
may  be." 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her,  and  left  the  room.  Outside  the 
door  he  stood  for  a  moment,  covering  his  eyes  with  his  hands, 
10  sick  at  heart  that  he  could  not  stir.  Magilalen  had  done 
this — the  wife  he  hnd  loved  and  trusted  had  plotted  and 
wrought  their  ruin. 

The  house  was  very  still;  after  the  late  tumult  a  dead  calm 
had  fallen.  Wliilo  ho  stood  there,  Phil's  bedroom  door 
opened,  and  the  doctor  looked  out. 

He  saw  George,  and  came  to  him  at  once. 

*^  Well?"  George  asked,  in  ii  suppressed  voice. 

**  I'm  afraid  of  the  worst,  George.  I'm  afraid  he's  got  his 
death-wound,  and  he  in  afraiil  vt  it,  too.  He  told  me  to  tele- 
graph to  Masterson.  He  la  fjulic  '^ulm  now,  and  Mr.  Harding 
is  with  him.  I'll  write  out  the  telegram  and  dispatch  it  at 
once.    Those  people  are  below  waiting  for  you."" 


ff 


.1. 


272 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


George  nodded  and  passed  on.  And  Philip  had  got  his 
deatii- wound!  The  words  rang  like  some  horrible  refrain  in 
his  ears.  He  had  loved  his  cousin  in  a  way  few  brothers  love, 
and  now  he  had  got  his  death-wound— and,  indirectly,  his  wife 
had  done  it. 

There  was  that  in  George  Barstone's  face  that  no  living 
being  had  ever  seen  there  before,  as  he  strode  into  the  draw- 
ing-room and  confronted  those  assembled  there. 

He  took  in  all  at  once  glance.  His  wife  stood  as  ho  had 
seen  her  last — she  had  never  stirred.  Her  colorless  face  and 
wide-open  eyes  had  never  altered  their  fixed,  blank  look. 
The  woman  who  had  claimed  to  be  Philip's  wife  had  sunk 
upon  a  chair,  her  face  hidden  in  her  hands,  crying  silent,  mis- 
erable tears. 

Ah,  poor  Caroline!  Silent,  miserable  tears  had  been  her 
portion  since  first  she  had  seen  and  loved  Philip  Barstone's 
false,  handsome  face. 

Willie  All  ward  stood,  also,  as  he  had  left  him,  hat  in  hand, 
gazing  sullenly  at  the  floor;  and  in  a  far  corner — forgotten, 
neglected,  huddled  together  in  a  strange,  distorted  attitude 
of  pain — was  poor  little  Fanny. 

George  crossed  to  her  directly  and  lifted  her  up  like  a  child. 

**  This  io  no  place  for  you,  Fanny.  Go  up  to  Aunt  Lydia 
at  once." 

He  led  her  to  the  door.  Fanny  obeyed  that  tone  of  author- 
ity like  a  frightened  child.  Only  once  she  looked  up  and 
spoke,  piteously: 

*»  Oh,  George!  will  he  die?" 

**  1  don't  kn<^'.v.     Go  to  Aunt  Lydia." 

She  toiled  slo^vlv  up  ihe  stairs.  He  watched  her  out  of 
bight,  then  came  bv;k,  clooed  the  door,  and  looked  at  the 
three  who  har"  v  ro';.;2'ht  ^hic  ruin.  Anl  still  Magdalen  stood 
like  one  petrif^fd  —like  ^^ric  bl-nd  unO,  lumb. 

He  spoke  to  Jio  ivoiiuif)  first — Caroline.  She  had  looked 
up  and  met  his  bljn.   pUiless  eyes. 

**  You  say  you  sru  Ci'i\:!iiie  Haistone — once  Caroline  Reed. 
Are  you  prepared  to  )  lOv  ^  it?" 

She  rose  and  drew  u  puper  from  her  bosom. 

**  It  is  my  marriage  lines,"  she  said,  simply.  **  I  have  his 
letters  in  my  pocket.  There  are  plenty  of  people  who'  can 
prove  my  identity." 

**  How  is  it  he  and  1— wo  ull — thought  you  dead?  I  have 
been  given  to  understand  Caroline  Barstoue  died  in  Bellevue 
Hospital. " 

**  He  thought  1  died  there^  sir,  but  it  was  a  mistake,  as  you 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


273 


lee.  1  can  tell  yon  how  it  was,  if  yon  will  listen  to  the 
story." 

**  I  am  here  to  listen.     Goon." 

Caroline  began  and  told  him  all.  Her  desertion — the  epi- 
sode of  Laura  All  ward,  which  had  goaded  her  to  desperation 
— Philip's  midnight  visit,  maddened  with  drink,  and  its 
tragical  termination — the  mistake  at  the  hospital — the  death  of 
her  child. 

**  Then  your  child— his  child— was  really  killed,  and  by 
him?" 

Her  trembling  lips  answered: 

**Yes." 

**  That  will  do.  I  am  convinced  you  are  his  wife,  and 
wronged  beyond  all  earthly  reparation.  Magdalen " — he 
turned  upon  her  abruptly  and  without  any  change  of  tone— 
**  how  long  have  you  known  all  this?" 

She  strove  to  speak;  the  words  died  away  upon  her  lips. 

Willie  came  a  step  forward  and  tried  to  answer  for  her. 
George  silenced  him  with  an  imperious  wave  of  the  hand. 

**  Not  a  word,  sir,  from  you.  Let  your  sicter  speak  for 
herself;  she  is  quite  capable  of  it  Answer  me,  if  you  please. 
You  have  known  this  ever  since  our  wedding-tri'  to  Kew 
York?" 

"  No  " 

**  Nor*  Ah,  I  see!  You  thought  1  was  Mauri  Langley, 
in  New  York.  You  discovered  your  mistake  on  j  night  of 
Miss  Goldham's  party?'* 

She  bowed  her  head. 

**  And  ever  since  that  night  you  have  known  all  this — that 
Philip  was  a  married  man  and  the  murderer  of  his  own  child?" 

**Ihave." 

**  And  knowing  this,  you  aided  Fanny  to  prepare  for  her 
marriage?" 

There  was  no  reply. 

**  You  plotted  with  your  brother  and  this  woman  to  bring 
about  the  public  exposure  of  to-night.  You  worked  in  the 
dark;  you  let  things  go  on  to  the  very  last  minute;  you  de- 
liberately deceived  us  all — all;  you  had  neither  womanly  com- 
passion ior  Fanny,  nor  wifely  respect  for  me.  Magdalen  Bar- 
itone, I  have  been  deceived  in  you  as,  I  think,  no  living  man 
ever  was  deceived  in  a  wife  before.  I  thought  you  a  little 
lower  than  the  angels — a  perfect  woman,  a  loving  wife.  1 
find  a  merciless,  pitiless  aven<:er,  with  a  heari  of  stone — a  soul 
without  one  spark  of  womaily  i)ity  or  love.  Indirectly  you 
have  caused  a  murder  to-nigU;  you  have  broken  a  young  girl'g 


274 


hagdalen's  vow. 


heart— blighted  her  life.    Magdalen,  God  may  forgive  you— I 
never  can. '' 

He  turned  his  back  upon  her.  She  never  moved  from  her 
rigid  attitude — she  nercr  spoke.  Her  blank  eyes  stared 
straight  before  her,  in  au  awful,  sightless  stare. 

Again  Willie  tried  to  speak;  again  the  husband  prevented 
him* 

**  Not  a  word,  sir,  for  her!  /am  her  husband;  it  is  for 
me  to  judge  her.  For  you,  your  plot  has  ended  as  tragically, 
as  melodramatically,  as  you  and  your  accomplices  can  wish. 
The  man  who  has  wronged  you  is  crying  upstairs;  the  family 
are  as  deeply  disgraced  as  even  yoif  can  desire.  If  you  had 
come  to  me  when  you  first  disco v^ered  all  this  shameful  story, 
yonder  woman  would  have  been  provided^  for,  and  the  man 
who  was  once  her  husband  would  have  been  banished  from 
this  house  forever.  My  wife  would  have  been  nearer  and 
dearer  to  nif  then  than  before,  for  the  wrongs  she  had  en- 
dured at  his  hands.  But  such  vengeance  as  that  would  be 
P'v)r  and  tame  to  you;  nothing  less  than  a  young  girl's  life- 
long misery,  a  household  publicly  dis^xaced,  a  wretched  man's 
life  taken,  would  satisfy  you.  There  is  the  door;  leave  this 
house,  and  cross  its  threshold  no  more.  If  Philip  Barstone 
lives,  I  need  not  tell  you  to  do  your  worst.  You  will  do  it. 
If  he  dies.  It.  will  have  passed  beyond  even  your  revenge. 
Go!'' 

He  threw  open  the  door  with  the  last  word.  Tho  Reverend 
Mr.  Harding  stood  upon  the  tlireshold. 

**  He  has  asked  for — for  his  wife/'  with  a  glance  at  Caro- 
line's shrinking  figure.     '*  Bring  her  up." 

He  hastened  away.  The  face  of  that  most  wretched  wife 
lighted  at  the  words  with  indescribable  rar)ture. 

**  For  me!"  she  whispered;  *'  for  me  /'^  8he  stretched  out 
her  hands  to  George.  **  Take  mo  to  him,  sir,"  she  said,  with 
ft  sob.     **  I  am  his  wife."  / 

His  face  softened  for  the  first  time  as  he  looked  at  her. 
IViis  was  womanhood — bearing  all  things,  forgiving  all,  and 
loving  to  the  end.  Without  word  or  look  for  the  other  two, 
he  took  her  hand  and  led  her  up  to  tho  wounded  man's  room. 

Willie  went  over  and  took  Magdalen  by  the  arm. 

'*  Wake  up,  Magdalen,"  he  said,  impatiently,  yet  with  a 
touch  of  pity  in  his  tone,  "  and  come  with  mo.  He  doesn't 
want  you — can't  you  see  that?" 

She  looked  at  him,  passing  her  hand  across  her  brow. 

**He  doesn't  want  me!"  she  repeated.  *' Yes,  take  m« 
away,  Willie— take  me  away!" 


/ 


I 


JIAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


m 


\ 


<      f 


,1 


'*  Go  and  pnt  a  shawl  on,  then.  Oh,  here  is  one>  and  a 
hat!"  He  wrapped  the  shawl  about  her,  put  the  hat  on  her 
head.  He  had  espied  them  in  the  hall.  Come  with  me  to 
Milford;  you  can  stop  in  Caroline's  room,  and  to-morrow  you 
shall  go  home." 

**  Home!"  Magdalen  said,  in  a  voice  whose  pathos  went  to 
"Willie's  heart — '*  home  /"  She  crossed  the  threshold  as  she 
spoke,  looking  back  as  Eve  might  have  looked  her  last  on 
Eden.  **  An  hour  ago  this  was  home!  Oh,  my  God!  my 
God!  what  have  I  done?" 

The  piercing  agony  of  that  cry  frightened  him.  He  drew 
her  with  him  out  into  the  chill  moonlit  night. 

**  Done  your  duty — nothing  more.  Don't  make  a  howling 
about  it,  now  it  is  too  late." 

**  He  called  me  a  murderer;  ho  said  I  broke  i^'anny's  heart; 
and,  oh,  Willie,  it  is  true — it  is  true!  Philip  Barstone  is 
dying,  and  through  me!" 

**  Nonsense!  stuff!  nothing  of  the  sort!  Through  himself, 
and  serves  him  right.  1  only  hope  he  may  not  die.  That 
would  be, too  good  for  him.  1  want  to  see  him  in  Sing  Sing — 
consigned  to  the  living  death  to  which  ho  consigned  me. 
Don't  be  maudlin,  Magdalen.     Come  along!" 

He  was  horribly  afraid  of  hysterics;  he  pulled  her  with  him 
roughly,  yet  looking  in  mingled  fear  and  compassion  in  her 
tortured  face. 

She  said  no  more;  she  walked  straight  with  him  to  Milford, 
her  rich,  white  dress  trailing  the  roads,  her  heart  sick,  her 
head  dizzy. 

It  was  a  walk  never  to  be  forgotten  by  either.  Thoy 
reached  the  house.  Willie's  latch-key  opened  the  door,  and 
they  ascended  the  stairs  unobserved.  He  threw  open  the  door 
of  the  room  that  had  been  Caroline's,  drew  her  in  after  him, 
and  struck  a  light.  The  lamp  stood  on  the  table.  Magdalen 
remained  where  he  had  left  her,  in  the  middle  of  the  floor. 

Suddenly  she  spoke,  in  a  hushed  whisper: 

*'  *  God  may  forgive  you— I  never  will!  I  never  will !'  " 

She  repeated  George's  words,  and,  without  a  cry  to  warn 
him,  fell  senseless  on  the  floor. 


i( 


CHAPTER    XXXV. 

I   AM   A   SINNER,   VILETi   TITAN   YOU   ALL 


ff 


George  led  Caroline  up  to  his  cousin's  room.     M  he  lamp 

burned  dim.     The  doctor  and  the  clergyman  still  stood  near. 

They  drew  back  at  the  entrance  cf  the  wife,  looking  at  her 


^^' 


*^'~TV^?7 


270 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


curiously.  She  was  a  heroine  of  romance,  a  real  heroin^; 
and  romance  of  any  kind  was  the  rarest  of  rare  occurrences  in 
their  prosaic  lives. 

The  wounded  ma.  lay  very  still,  breathing  laboriously,  his 
dark  eyes  wide  open  and  fixed  upon  the  night-lamp.  Caro- 
line trembled  from  head  to  foot  as  she  clung  to  George's  arm. 

**  Couragel"  ho  whispered.     **  He  is  not  angry  with_you. " 

She  dropped  on  her  knees  by  his  bedside,  with  a  stifled  sob, 
and  kissed  the  hand  lying  helpless  there.  He  had  used  her 
brutally — more  than  brutally — he  had  tried  to  take  her  life — 
he  had  k'^^ed  her  child;  but  she  was  a  woman;  she  had  been 
his  wife — sne  had  loved  him  dearly,  passionately,  once.  And 
he  was  dying  now.  To  the  dying  and  the  dead  all  things  are 
forgiven.  In  that  hour  her  lost  youth  came  back  to  her — the 
lover  who  had  been  so  fond  of  his  pretty,  black-eyed,  rosy- 
cheeked  bride,  lay  helpless  here-- not  the  brutal  husband. 
And  Caroline's  dead  heart  raked  to  life  and  love,  and  the  in- 
finite pain  love  brings  to  woLian,  in  that  sob  and  kiss. 

He  drew  his  hand  away,  as  if  the  touch  of  her  lips  burned 
him;  he  looked  at  her — a  long,  steady,  frowning  gaze» 

'*  It  is  Caroline!"  he  said;  **  and  1  saw  her  grave  six  years 
ago!" 

**  Not  mine — oh,  Maurice,  not  mine!  1  would  not  have 
deceived  you,  then,  and  after — I — I — was  afraid  to  tell  you. 
Forgive  me,  Maurice — " 

Her  voice  died  away. 

Forgive  her!  He!  He  turned  from  her^  the  keenest  pang 
of  remorse  he  had  ever  felt  piercing  his  heart. 

**  Don't  kneel  there!"  he  said,  roughly.  **  Don't  kneel  to 
me!    Sit  down;  I  want  to  hear  the  whole  story." 

She  sat  down  beside  him,  and  in  broken  accents  told  her 
pitiful  tale.  He  listened,  frowning  harshly,  with  mental  and 
physical  pain. 

**  You  know  1  thought  you  dead?  When  you  hoard  I  was 
about  to  marry  again,  why  did  you  not  com(  'orward  at  once? 
Why  did  you  wait  until  to-night?" 

'*  It  was  not  as  I  wished.  I  had  prom  to  obey  Willie 
A II ward,  and  I  kept  my  word.  1'  ^  wa^  eiy  good  to  me, 
Maurice,  when  1  needed  a  frieni  »nd  I  Lever  dreamed  o^ 
this!" 

**  Do  not  call  me  by  that  name!'    Philip   Barstone  said, 
almost  savagely.     "  Wixere  is  yonnt:   '  'Iward  i     .  ?" 
*  Down-stairs  with  his  sister." 

There  was  a  pause.  Ho  lay,  still  wu.;  iu\i  heavy  frown  on 
his  lace,  still  breathing  painfully.  -v 


I 


AlAGDALEJi's    VOW. 


m 


t> 


l 


**  See  here,  Caroline,"  he  said,  after  a  pantx).  '*  I  know 
I've  got  my  death-wound — there!  hold  your  tongue — you 
ought  to  he  thankful,  and  are,  no  doubt,  but  if  you  can  do 
it,  I  want  you  to  stay  here  until  the  last.  Tm  glad  you're 
alive — I  am,  I  swear — though  it  has  coat  me  my  life.  1  have 
been  the  greatest  scoundrel  on  earth  to  you,  aLd  I  don't  ask 
you  to  forgive  me,  mind — that's  impossible;  but  I  wish  you 
would  stay.  It's  a  sort  of  comfort  to  me  to  see  your  face. 
For  the  soke  of  the  old  times,  long  ago,  before  I  brought  you 
to  New  York,  and  when  we  were  fond  of  each  other,  you  will 
atay  till  all  is  over?" 

Her  stifled  sobs  interrupted  him.  He  looked  at  her  with 
real  anxiety  in  his  face.  She  caught  his  hand  and  covered  it 
with  tears  and  kisses. 

**  Stay  with  you?  Oh,  my  darling,  forever  and  ever!  And 
I  do  forgive  you  I  You  were  mad  that  night,  and  1  goaded 
you  to  it,  and  you  did  not  know  what  you  were  doing.  Oh^ 
my  husband,  1  do  forgive  you  I  I  love  you  and  forgive  you 
with  all  my  heart!" 

The  doctor  interfered  sternly,  authoritatively. 

**  This  won't  do!"  he  said.  **  You  must  control  yourself, 
madame,  or  you  must  leave  the  room." 

The  wounded  man  looked  up  at  him  with  something  that 
was  almost  a  smile.  He  took  Caroline's  hand  for  the  first 
time. 

"She  is  my  wife,  doctor,"  he  said;  **  a  man's  wife  is 
privileged  to  cry  a  little  when  her  husband  is  going  out  of  the 
world.  She  shall  cry  as  much  as  she  pleases,  and  I  won't 
have  her  sent  out  of  the  room.  It  doesn't  disturb  me  in  the 
least — I  like  it." 

*'  You  talk  a  great  deal  more  than  is  good  for  you!" 
growled  the  physician.  **  If  your  wife  has  any  influence  over 
you,  I  wish  snfe  would  exercise  it  to  make  you  hold  your 
tongue." 

She  came  close  to  him;  she  laid  her  hand  softly  on  his  fore- 
head. Infinite  love,  infinite  forgiveness,  made  her  worn  face 
almost  angolic  in  its  light  at  that  moment. 

Philip  looked  at  her  in  a  sort  of  wonder.  At  her  brightest, 
in  the  days  of  her  happy  girlhood,  she  had  never  seemed  aj 
beautiful  as  now. 

**  Don't  talk,  Maurice,"  she  said,  softly — **  oh,  1  beg  your 
pardon!  I  mean  Philip.  Rest,  if  you  can.  I  will  never  leave 
you  again — never!" 

He  pressed  her  hands  faintly,  closed  hia  eyes  and  lay  still; 
then  softly  called,  "  George!" 


m 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


«i 


«t 


«« 


Goorgo,  standing  gloomily  apnrt,  with  folded  arms  and 
compressed  lips,  advanced  and  stood  beside  him. 

'  Where's  your  wife?" 
Down-stairs  in  the  drawing-room." 
Don't  be  too  hard  on  her,  George.  It's  all  true,  and  she's 
served  me  right.  1  don't  set  up  for  a  saint,  now  that  I'm 
done  for,  forqjiving  everybody  and  all  that  bosh;  but  she's 
just  done  by  me  as  she  ought — as  I  would  do  in  her  place. 
She's  got  the  better  of  me,  and  she's  not  to  be  blamed.  If  I 
/could  have  taken  her  life  yesterday,  without  fear  of  detection, 
I'd  have  done  it — I  would,  by  Jupiter!  I  tell  you  it's  all  fair, 
George,  and*  you  must  not  be  hard  on  her  when  I'm  gone.  I 
hated  her  from  the  first,  because  I  feared  her.  I've  done 
with  fearing  now,  and  hating,  too.  It's  all  over.  Fet^i  her 
here,  if  you  like,  and  I'll  tell  her  so."  ^ 

**  Thank  you,  Phil,"  George  said.  ^'  I'd  rather  not  fetch 
her  here  just  at  present.  I  suppose  she  has  served  you  right, 
as  you  say  so,  and  I  suppose,  some  time  in  the  future,  I  may 
learn  to  forgive  her,  in  a  sort  of  way,  but  that  time  is  not  yet. 
1  will  go  to  her,  however;  and  for  you — don't  excite  yourself 
— try  to  sleep. " 

**  Try  to  sleep,"  Caroline  sighed,  like  a  soft  echo — **  try  to 
Bleep." 

George  left  the  room.  Before  descending  the  stairs  he 
tapped  at  Miss  Barstone's  door  and  went  in.  Aunt  Lydia  sat 
as  he  had  left  her,  with  Fanny,  in  her  bridal-dress  and 
orange-blossoms,  sobbing  at  her  feet^-sobbing  and  scolding 
alternately.     She  looked  up  eagerly. 

"  Any  news,  George?"  his  aunt  asked.  "  How  is  Phil? 
May  1  go  to  him?" 

**  Phil  is  no  worse,  and  I  think  it  would  be  as  well  not  to 
ffo  to  him  to-night.  He  has  not  asked  for  you,  and  his  wife 
IS  with  him.  They  are  reconciled^  and  she  is  sl&ying  with  him 
to  the — last." 

(  Fanny  burst  out  into  loud,  hysterical  weeping.  His  wife! 
and  reconciled  to  him!  and  to  stay  with  him  to  the  last!  It 
was  the  unkindest  cut  of  all.  She  was  excluded;  nobody 
thought  of  her  or  wanted  her.  She  was  a  miserable,  broken- 
hearted girl,  whom  no  one  cared  for  or  pitied. 

'*  I  wish  1  was  dead!"  Fanny  sobbed,  wildly.  **  I  wish  I 
was  dead  and  buried!  Oh,  why  was  I'ever  born?  Oh,  what 
have  I  ever  done  that  I  should  be  treated  like  this?  Oh,  dear 
me!" 

The  hysterics  grew  wilder.  She  jumped  up,  the  sobs 
almost  a  screech.     She  tore  the  wicuili  from  her  head,  and 


1 


■  > 


A 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


279 


,r 


trampled  it  under  her  feefc,  and  fell  into  George's  arms  in  the 
most  frantic  hysterics. 

The  servants  were  summoned,  the  doctor  was  called,  and 
George  made  his  escape.  This  time  ho  descended  to  the 
drawmg-room. 

He  hardly  know  what  ho  meant  to  say  to  Magdalen — not 
forgive  hor,  certainly;  but  not  reproach  her,  either.  lie 
would  take  her  to  lier  rooms,  he  thought,  and  desire  her  to 
remain  there  for  the  present.  He  sighed  bitterly  as  he 
thought  of  her,  and  went  in. 

The  drawing-room  was  empty — his  wife  was  gone! 

He  looked  around,  bewildered;  he  searched  the  small  inner 
room,  the  dining-room — in  vain.  He  went  up  to  hor  own 
rooms;  they,  too,  were  deserted. 

As  he  stood,  not  knowing  where  to  look  next,  Susie,  the 
ihouse-maid,  passing  from  Aunt  Lydia's  room,  addressed  him 
respectfully: 

**  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir;  are  you  looking  for  Mrs.  Bar- 
stone?" 

**Yes.     Where  is  she?" 

**  I  don't  know,  sir;  she  has  left  the  house." 
;    "  Left  the  house?" 

"  Yes,  sir;  with  that  strange  young  man.  I  saw  her  go 
away  with  him  five  minutes  after  you  came  upstairs  with  tho 
lady.  I  heard  him  tell  her  to  come,  and  she  put  on  a  shawl 
and  hat,  and  went." 

**  Thank  you,  Susan;  that  will  do." 

He  spoke  quietly.  He  returned  to  the  bedroom  and  sat 
down.  She  had  deserted  him,  then,  and  gone  away  with  hor 
brother — the  brother  whom  she  loved  far  more  than  she  had 
ever  loved  her  husband. 

After  all,  perhaps  it  was  as  well.  Her  position  in  the  house, 
just  now,  would  be  little  short  of  daily  torture,  lie  felt  him- 
self that  he  could  hardly  bear  to  see  her  at  present  She 
would  probably  stay  at  her  brother's  lodging  to-night,  and  to- 
morrow go  back  to  her  country  home. 

Better  so— yes,  better  so.  In  a  few  weeks,  when  all  had 
ended  one  way  or  other,  he  would  follow  and  reclaim  her,  and 
forgive  her,  if  he  could. 

Morning  came.  Another  jubilant  April  day — the  sun  shin- 
ing, the  birds  singing.  There  was  little  change  in  the  sick 
man — some  rising  fever — no  more. 

George  took  a  cup  of  colTeo,  and  went  to  Milfordiind  Mrs. 
Freeman's  boarding-house.  There  was  a  note  for  him  there 
T-from  Willie,    It  ran; 


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280 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


**  Mr.  George  BARSTONE,--Sir:  I  have  taken  Magdalen 
home — your  house  is  no  place  for  her  now.  I  will  be  back  in 
Milford  to-morrow  night,  in  case  I  should  be  needed. 

"  Yours,  to  command, 

"William  Allward.*' 

The  day  passed.  The  fever  had  increased — Philip  was 
growing  delirious.  With  the  evening  came  Dr.  Mastersou ; 
before  midnight,  the  ball  was  extracted.  But  the  fever  was 
steadily  increasing;  the  vital  power  to  rally  seemed  lacking. 
Before  morning  he  was  raving  incoherently  with  the  effort; 
by  night  he  was  at  the  lowest. 

Through  all  the  faithful  wife  sat  at  her  post,  heedless  of 
sleeping,  of  eating,  of  uU  earthly  things  but  the  man  whose 
hand  she  clasped,  whose  damp  brow  she  bathed,  whose  words 
she  listened -to. 

She  had  the  reward  most  men  give  most  women.  Through 
it  all  he  never  spoke  of  her — his  thoughts  seemed  perversely 
centered  upon  another. 

'*  Don't  go  out  to-night,  Laura!"  he  would  cry  over  and 
over  again;  "  it  is  past  midnight — don't  go  out  to-night!" 

He  spoke  of  many  things,  but  this  was  the  burden  of  his 
cry — **  Don't  go  to-night,  Laura!    Don't  go  to-night!" 

The  seared  wounds  of  the  wife's  heart  bled  afresh  as  she 
listened.  It  was  of  her  rival— of  Laura  Allward,  dead  and 
gone — his  every  thought  was  now.  He  had  forgotten  her.  Ifc 
was  but  one  more  stab  to  tliat  patient  heart;  but  it  seemed 
the  bitterest  of  all. 

The  fever  left  him  as  night  fell.  He  opened  his  eyes,  and 
they  rested  on  Caroline,    He  smiled  faintly;  he  tried  to  speak. 

The  power  of  speech  was  gone.  He  motioned  for  a  drink, 
smiled  in  her  face  again,  closed  his  eyes,  and  lay  still. 

The  fluttering  breath  was  there,  and  no  more.  Fainter  and 
fainter  it  came — lower  and  lower  sunk  the  pulse.  He  hardly 
seemed  to  breathe. 

Dr.  Masterson  sat  on  the  other  side  of  the  bed,  holding  his 
wrist,  gazing  steadfastly  at  the  corpse-like  face.  They  were 
all  in  the  room — the  windows  wide  open,  the  night  air  flut- 
tered the  curtains,  the  broad,  white  moonlight  shone  in. 

Fanny  knelt  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  her  face  hidden,  weep- 
ing incessantly;  Miss  Barstone  sat  at  the  head,  George  stood 
behind  her  chair;  the  Reverend  Mr.  Harding  and  Richard 
Tompkins  stood  togelher  at  a  little  distance. 

The  hours  wore  on.  Did  he  sleep?  iNo  sign  of  life  waa 
there,  but  life  still  lingered.  ^ 


I 


MAGDALEN  S    YOW. 


^81 


It  was  close  upon  twelve,  by  the  doctor  *s  watch,  when  he 
suddenly  opened  his  eyes  wide,  and  looked  full  at  the  nroonlit 
window. 

**  Don't  go  to-night,  Laura!'*  he  repeated,  clearly;  **it  is 
past  midnight — don't  go  to-night!" 

His  voice  failed.  They  saw  him  shudder  from  head  to  foot; 
then  he  lay  still.     Asleep  again? 

Dr.  Masterson  bent  over  him,  his  pulse  to  his  mouth.  He 
was  dead! 


>-- -' 


CHAPTER  XXX VI. 

FORGIVEN". 

Nurse  Rachel  sat  on  the  front  doorstep  of  the  solitary 
cottage  nestled  among  the  New  Hampshire  hills.  The  May 
afternoon  was  warm  and  still — very  still,  in  that  green, 
secluded  spot,  remote  from  every  other  habitation. 

Over  the  distant  mountain-pealis  a  golden-gray  sky  spread; 
a  faint  southerly  breeze  stirred  the  rose  bushes  under  the  open 
windows,  and  fluttered  softly  the  muslin  curtains.  In  the 
little  grass-grown  garden  Laura  raced,  with  the  house-dog  at 
her  heels,  her  light  hair  flowing  loose,  her  childish  laugh  peal- 
ing out  sweet  and  merry. 

Kachers  sewing  lay  in  her  lap;  it  had  fallen  there  un- 
heeded, as  she  sat  and  thought.  A  neighbor  from  the  village, 
passing  along  and  pausing  at  the  gate,  aroused  her. 

**  How  is  Mrs.  Barstone  to-day?"  the  woman  inquired. 

*'  Much  the  same — no  better.     Won't  you  come  in?" 

**  No.     Is  she  out  of  her  mind  still?" 

**  Out  of  her  mind,  and  talking  about  everything  under  the 
sun.     Laura,  child,  less  noise — remember,  auntie  is  sick.'' 

The  neighbor  passed  on;  the  child  subdued  her  gleeful  laugh. 
Five  minutes  later,  and  Rachel,  about  to  rise  and  return  to  the 
house,  saw  a  man — a  stranger — hastily  approaching  the  house. 
One  glance  was  enough— it  was  Magdalen's  husband. 

She  sat  still,  and  waited.  He  came  on,  opened  wie  littlo 
white  gate,  and  drew  near.  He  was  very  pale  and  careworn, 
and  dressed  in  mournii  g. 

**  My  wife  is  here?"  he  said.     **  I  am  George  Barstone.' 

R;ichel  slowly  rose. 

**  Your  wife  has  been  here  two  weeks.  It  is  rather  late  in 
the  day  to  come  for  her  now." 

He  grew  ashen  white.     81ie  could  see  his  li|)S  tremble. 

**  What  do  you  mean?    Magdalen  is  here — is  well?" 
^  **  Yes,  well,"  Nurse  Rachul  retorted,  bitterly 3  '*  so  well 


ff 


282 


MAGDALEN '3    VOW. 


„li 


that  she  will  soon  be  in  heaven!    Your  wife  lies  in  yondei 
room — dying!" 

He  uttered  a  cry;  he  staggered  as  if  she  had  struck  him  a 
blow. 

**  Dying!''  he  repeated^  in  a  whisper — "  dying!    Magdalen 
i  dying?'' 

The  words  died  upon  his  lips.  The  white  horror  in  his  face 
moved  even  Rachel,  bitterly  though  she  still  spoke. 

*'  Ay,  dying,  for  what  I  know,  for  what  the  doctor  knows, 
to  the  contrary.  You  have  done  well  between  you,  sir — you 
and  your  cousin.  He  broke  her  sister's  heart,  as  you  have 
broken  Magdalen's." 

"He  is  dead,"  George  Barstone  said,  in  a  hollow  voice. 
**  Let  him  be!" 

**  Dead!    Maurice  Langley  dead,  at  last!" 

**  At  last!  If  he  wronged — and  he  did  wrong  greatly — 
Laura  Allward,  at  least  he  has  paid  the  penalty  with  his  life. 
Living  or  dying,  she  is  still  mine!" 

Rachel  moved  into  the  house  at  once,  awed  by  the  expres- 
sion of  his  face.  She  opened  the  door  of  the  little  parlor, 
where  years  before,  Magdalen,  a  school-girl  of  sixteen,  had 
knelt  beside  her  dead  sister — a  friendless  orphan. 

The  little  room  was  darkened  now  as  then — now  as  then 
was  spotlessly  pure  and  clean— and  on  the  bed,  white  as  that 
dead  sister,  Magdalen  lay,  heavily  asleep.  Her  husband 
crossed  the  room  and  stood,  hat  in  hand,  gazing  down  at  that 
death-like  face.  Rachel  looked  at  him  once,  and,  with  that 
look,  forgave  him  all.  Be  had  loved  her — he  loved  her  still — 
the  unutterable  anguish  she  read  there  told  her  that,  She 
laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  with  a  woman's  first  pitying  in- 
stinct— to  comfort. 

**  She  has  not  slept  like  this  since  she  was  taken,"  she 
whispered.  "  It  is  a  good  omen.  I  have  hope  to-day  for  th« 
first  time." 

**  What  is  it?"  he  whispered  back. 

**  Typhus — malignant  typhus.  No  one  sets  foot  inside  this 
5oor  but  myself.  She  was  taken  down  on  the  very  day  she 
came." 

**  And  her  brother  leturned  to  Milford  and  never  told  me. 
I  asked  him  if  he  had  left  her  safe  and  well,  and  he  answered 
yes." 

He  sunk  in  a  chair  by  her  bedside,  and  covered  his  eyes 
with  his  hands. 

**  Has  the  doctor  been  here  to-day?"  he  asked,  after  a  pause. 

**  He  was  here  this  moirning." 


«i ,... 


"% 


K       I 


T        i 


MAGDALEX'S    VOW. 


283 


**  And  what  does  he  say?" 

**  That  this  sleep  will,  in  all  probability,  be  her  salvation, 
if  the  trouble  that  has  weighed  on  her  mind  from  the  first 
can  be  removed.  You  have  only  to  say,  *  1  forgive  you,' 
an^  that  will  be  done. " 

He  held  out  his  hand  to  her. 

**  Thank  you,  Rachel,''  he  said.  '*  What  would  have  be- 
come of  her  but  for  you?     Where  is  her  brother?'* 

**  Gone  West  to  push  his  fortunes.  He  meant  to  send  for 
Magdalen  as  soon  as  he  could.  And  you  really  tell  me,  sir, 
Maurice  Langley  is  dead  and  buried?" 

**  Dead  and  buried. " 

**  And  did  he  die  repentant?  Did  any  remorse  for  the 
wrongs  he  had  done  haunt  hira  on  his  death-bed?" 

**  Laura's  name  was  the  last  upon  his  lips.  He  forgave 
those  who  had  been  his  enemies — his  wife  by  his  side  until  the 
last.  She  is  at  Golden  Willows  still.  She  will  never  leave  it 
now." 

*'  And  the  poor  young  lady,  sir?" 

"  Fanny  has  left  Milford  and  gone  to  New  York.  A  friend 
of  ours — Mr.  Richard  Tompkins— induced  his  mother  to  come 
and  fetch  her  for  a  long  visit.  She  will  do  well  enough. 
Had  I  dreamed,  ever  so  remotely,  Magdalen  was  ill,  I  would 
have  left  everything  and  come  to  her  at  once." 

*'  I  believe  you,  sir,"  old  Rachel  answered.  '*  I  don't  de6y 
that  it  was  hard — your  cousin's  crimes  visited  upon  you. 
Your  married  life  has  not  been,  hitherto,  a  very  happy  one, 
Magdalen's  secret  and  Magdalen's  vow  have  stood  between 
you  and  happiness.  All  that  is  over  now.  When  you  are 
reunited  and  your  new  life  begins,  there  will  be  nothing  to 
come  between  you.  The  past  will  be  atoned  for  and  forgot- 
ten, when  she  recovers." 

She  left  the  room,  to  prepare  for  her  unexpected  visitor. 
George  looked  despairingly  at  that  corpse-like  face. 

**  When  she  recovers!"  he  repeated.  "  My  wife,  my  wife, 
my  wife!"  i.tt*^ 

SjC  *i*  ?p  I*  T*  fl*  ^F 

It  was  the  day  after,  early  in  the  forenoon.  With  the  May 
sunshine  streaming  in,  the  birds  singing  outside  the  window, 
Magdalen  opened  her  eyes,  the  fever  gone — death-like,  ex- 
hausted, but  safe. 

George  sat  by  her  bedside.  Her  eyes  fell  upon  him.  A 
faint,  sweet  smile  parted  her  lips;  then,  a  second  after,  she 
was  asleep  again. 

Ijate  in  the  afternoon  she  awoke  again,  hungry  for  the  first 


284: 


MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


time.  It  was  George's  hand  that  administered  the  beef-tea 
and  the  cooling  drink— George's  voice  that  spoke  with  tremu- 
lous tenderness  in  her  ear.  She  smiled  again;  she  felt"?!©  sur- 
prise at  seeing  him  there;  she  was  too  utterly  weak  tven  to 
think. 

Another  jubilant  morning,  and  again  she  awoke  from  a 
long,  sweet,  health-giving  sleep,  stronger  in  body  and  mind — 
strong  enough,  at  least,  to  think. 

It  was  Eachel  who  watched  by  her  now — Rachel  who 
bathed  her  face  and  hands,  and  prepared  her  slender  morning 
meal. 

She  looked  wonderingly  at  her  own  wasted  hands,  and  spoke 
for  the  first  time. 

*'  I  have  been  sick,  Rachel!    How  long?" 

**  Nearly  three  weeks,  my  dear.  You  naustn't  talk  yet; 
you're  not  strong  enough." 

'*  What  was  the  matter?" 

**  A  fever.     You're  doing  nicely  now." 

**  Where  is  George:" 

**  Gone  for  a  walk.  Drink  your  tea,  like  a  good  child,  and 
don't  talk  any  more  just  now." 

Magdalen  obeyed.  She  eat  and  drank  with  the  avidity  of 
convalescence,  and  lay  back  on  her  pillow,  with  closed  eyes, 
thinking.  And  slowly  it  all  came  back — that  dreadful  night 
— her  flight  from  Golden  Willows — George's  cruel  words— her 
falling  ill  here. 

"  God  may  forgive  you,  but  1  never  will!"  George  had  said 
that,  and  yet  George  was  here,  and  watching  by  her  sick-bed. 
What  did  it  mean? 

The  door  opened  softly,  as  she  thought,  and  George  came 
in.  Weak  as  she  was,  she  started  up  on  her  elbow,  the  large, 
dark  ejes  looking  unnaturally  dark,  and  large,  and  dilated 
now.  She  grasped  his  wrist  as  he  drew  near,  and  looked 
wildly  up  in  his  face. 

**  You  said  you  would  never  forgive  me!"  she  exclaimed,  ., 
**  and  yet  you  are  here.     Oh,  George!  why  did  you  not  let  me 
die?" 

He  drew  her  nearer  to  him,  and  sealed  the  pale  lips  with  a 
fervent  kiss. 

**  That  is  why,  my  darling!  Because  I  love  you;  because  I 
can  not  live  without  you.  Forget  those  harsh  words  of  mine, 
my  love.  1  was  beside  myself  when  I  spoke  them;  and  don't 
agitate  yourself  now." 

She  still  sat  and  gazed  at  him,  her  eyes  wild,  her  face  in- 
oredulo^8, 


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MAGDALEN'S    VOW. 


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**  An^  after  all — after  that  night — after  what  I  have  done — 
jou  c|B  still  love  me,  still  forgive  me?  Say  it  again,  George. 
I  canTbelieve  it — 1  can't  realize  it.     Say  it  again." 

**  Again  and  again,  and  ten  thousand  times  again,  my  own 
dear  wife— my  poor,  tortured,  half-maddened  girl!  I  forgive 
you,  I  love  you — I  never  knew  how  dearly  until  now.  1  know 
all,  Magdalen — how  you  strove  to  save  us  at  the  last.  1  know 
the  exposure  was  Willie's  doing,  not  yours.  And  ho  deserved 
it.  He  owned  it  himself,  and  died  knowing  his  sentence  to  be 
just.'' 

**  And  he  is  dead?" 
^     *'  Dead,  and — forgiven,  let  us  hope.     Died  with  his  wife 
beside  him,  thankful  to  have  her  there.     And  1  have  come 
here,  never  to  leave  you  again,  my  darling,  never  to  let  any- 
thing come  between  us  more." 

She  covered  her  eyes  with  one  wasted  hand,  her  heart  too 
full  for  words.     She  had  not  deserved  such  mercy  as  this. 

**  And  Fanny?"  she  whispered,  after  a  pause. 

'*  Fanny  is  in  New  York,  with  the  Tompkins  family.  She 
won't  break  her  heart,  believe  me,"  George  answered,  rather 
cynically. 

**  And  Aunt  Lydia?" 

"  Bears  it,  as  she  has  borne  all  the  sorrows  of  her  life, 
nobly.  Caroline  is  with  her — will  never  leave  her  now;  and 
when  you  are  sufiBciently  restored  [to  leave  this,  Rachel  and 
little  Laura  will  find  their  future  home  at  Golden  Willows. 
With  Laura  in  the  house,  she  will  be  almost  happy.  And  we 
will  leave  her  with  them,  my  own  Magdalen,  and  start  for 
that  trip  to  the  old  land  we  have  looked  forward  to  so  long. 
Think  of  Venice,  and  Naples,  and  Rome,  and  the  rest  of  it, 
Magdalen,  and  make  haste  and  get  well.  This  shall  be  our 
wedding-tour — a  happier  one  than  our  last." 

4c  *  *  *  *  *  "^  * 

Three  weeks  later,  and  with  Rachel  and  Laura  statelily 
transplanted  to  Golden  Willows,  George  and  Magdalen  found 
themselves  in  New  York,  their  passage  taken  in  the  steamer 
that  was  to  bear  them  away  on  the  first  stage  of  their  long, 
pleasant  tour. 

They  had  called  upon  Miss  Winters,  at  the  residence  of  the 
paternal  Tompkins,  and  found  that  young  lady  looking  very 
nice,  and  fresh,  and  rosy,  in  her  new  mourning.  It  was  a 
little  ajvkward,  the  first  meeting  between  Magdalen  and 
Fanny;  but  it  wore  away  presently,  and  Fanny  was  expatiating 
m  the  old,  breathless  way  upon  the  delights  of  the  Empire  City. 

**  J  never  can  live  in  the  country  again,  after  being  here. 


280* 


MAGDALEN  S    VOW. 


Magdalen;  not  that  I  go  into  society  as  yet,  of  conrso/*  glano- 
mg  at  her  crape  and  jet.  **  But  still  it's  splendid,  afhj  Mrs. 
Tompkins  is  so  kind,  and  bO  are  the  Misses  TompkiiUj — just 
Wke  sisters,  Vm  sure;  and  Richard  is  such  a  genius.  And, 
oh,  Magdalen!  authors,  and  artists,  and  poets  are  as  plentiful 
in  this  house  as  blackberries  on  the  bushes  at  home.*'* 

"Richard!"  Mrs.  Barstone  repeated,  demurely.  **  Rich- 
ard is — " 

**  Oh,  Mr.  TompkiLS,  of  course!"  Fanny  answered,  blush- 
ing. **  I  get  into  the  way  of  it,  hearing  the  girls  call  him  so. 
It's  very  kind  of  George  and  you  to  wish  to  take  me  with 
you;  but,"  twisting  her  bracelet  nervously  and  looking  down, 
**  I  don't  care  for  traveling  just  yet.  I  like  New  York,  and 
1  haven't  half  seen  it;  besides,  Mrs.  Tompkins  won't  hear  of 
my  leaving." 

**  Well,"  George  asked  his  wife,  when  they  left  the  house, 
**  what  do  you  think  of  Fanny?"     Magdalen  smiled. 

'*  Fanny  will  do  very  nicely.  1  am  more  thankful  than  I 
can  say  to  see  her  like  this.  I  haven't  deserved  to  be  so  happy, 
after  all  my  wickedness.  Forgiven  by  all — Fanny,  Aunt 
Lydia,  and  you — and  loved  and  trusted  so  entirely  once  more. 
Oh,  Gerrge!  can  anything  ever  come  between  us  two  again?" 

And  so,  with  the  dawn  of  her  new  life,  we  leave  Magdalen, 
the  great  trials  of  the  past  ended,  a  wiser,  a  tenderer,  a  better 
woman.  She  had  acted  wrongly  and  suffered  greatly,  and  no 
secret  will  ever  part  her  from  her  husband's  heart  more. 

And  Fanny?  Well,  it  is  eight  months  since  that  tragical 
April  night,  and  Fanny  is  plumper,  rosier,  and  more  talkative, 
if  possible,  than  ever.  1  received  a  letter,  no  longer  ago  than 
last  week,  from  Mr.  Richard  Tompkins,  for  whom  1  entertain 
the  warmest  sentiments  of  fraternal  friendship,  in  which  he 
more  than  hinted  that  one  of  the  ambitions  of  his  life  was  on 
the  eve  of  realization.  An  heiress,  worth  sixty  thousand  dol- 
lars, had  consented  to  marry  him. 

In  justice  to  my  friend,  I  must  state  that  he  is  very  fond  of 
his  little  heiress-— her  name  is  Fanny — and  that  she  looks  up 
to  and  venerates  the  famous  author  as  but  little  lower  thao 
the  gods. 

And  at  Golden  Willows  they  await  the  return  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Barstone,  in  anticipation  of  a  certain  happy  event. 
Little  Laura  seems  to  have  brought  new  life  to  Aunt  Lydia. 
In  the  years  to  come,  other  children  may  make  the  dear  old 
homestead  merry,  but  if  they  are  nearer  or  dearer  to  the  hearts 
cf  George  and  Magdalen,  Laura's  child  will  never  know  it. 

:         THE  END. 


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